20 Where the Worlds Burn
by PeechTao -Ezra Cross
Summary: So where was Clint when the world imploded for Cpt. Am.2? This is that answer. Months of working undercover to ferret out HYDRA strongholds has culminated to this massive moment. Full of adventure, explosions, injuries, and death. Clint must decide whether he can survive in the company of his "former" Avenger's friends, or if he is giving up being a hero forever. (summery inside!)
1. Prologue

OH MY GOSH IT'S HERE! AHHHHHHHHHHH!

Synopsis: Everything in the last two and a half years of Avengers work has boiled down into this amazing moment. (wow, I've almost been writing these stories for that same amount of time!). Clint, on a mission to take down his psychotic brother, Barney, is suddenly stolen from his mission. Together with Steve and Tony, they are dropped into the midst of a civil uprising on Alfheimr. With tensions between Alfheimr and Asgard boiling over since the Dark Elves' invasion, the King and Queen have done what they could to preserve the peace. But that is now threatening to shatter to the core. Someone wants Clint dead on Alfheimr soil. But what is their motive? Why now, when Clint would rather be just about anywhere else? Will he get back to earth on time to destroy his brother's evil plot? Or will the country fall before he can return? What in the world will happen to them! Find out!

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Prologue

_Ok, this looks bad but trust me, it feels worse. It's not every day I spend my morning hiding out in a snow drift from the sudden onslaught of HYDRA agents who were supposed to be my back up. It **is** typical to get a little bail out from Tony and Steve now and again, of which today, I am not grateful for. But seriously, trouble seems to find the three of us despite our best efforts to avoid it. I swear, this time, I had nothing to do with the sudden interdimensional portal that literally picked us up from my on sight mission in the Bavarian Alps and dropped us in the middle of a thousand year old forest in God-knows-what-realm._

_I distinctly remembered the fight I was engaging Steve and Tony in. I cursed at them first, and then socked Tony in the face. I think I broke my hand at that point but I wasn't totally sure. Besides, they both deserved it. It was their fault that I'd lost the most important thing in my life. They'd destroyed me from the outside in and the last thing I wanted was their help now! I was on a mission. I needed to stay on that mission and the Avengers were getting in the way of my life. _

_But I never got the chance to tell them just how much I hated them. A mass of light and Asgardian energy swept us up. Starbursts blasted passed our eyes and the tail end of my rant was completed from my back which splayed against an unknown woodland grass bed. I hardly managed to get my feet under me before the first foreign arrow sailed near my skull. _

_I jumped to high alert. Steve barked orders as the clang of his shield sailing against some unseen foe rung into the air. Tony's repulsers flared beside me. I summoned my bow, set an arrow to the string and got my first look at this strange new land that was most certainly not Germany. A second arrow shaft burst from the copse of trees. I tried to move, avoid it, deflect it, but I could do nothing to get out of the way. The force of the impact slammed into me like a fist. It threw me back, the tip embedded into Tony's chest plates and suddenly I was stuck without my trigger arm. As you can imagine, I screamed like a wuss._

_This is where that "it feels worse" line comes in. I tended to be the one putting arrows into people and I can tell you I did not appreciate being on the receiving end for once. Let alone the fact that I was stuck to Stark's chest like a pinned insect. _

_Steve mentioned something about getting to the woods but I was too distracted with maintaining the integrity of my collar bone to care what he said. Under the continued hail of arrow fire, I felt Tony's armored arms bear hug my chest to keep me still. We lifted off the ground and together, we blasted across the field and took off into the thick trunks of the overgrown trees. If I wasn't mistaken . . . this place actually looked familiar. It seemed we were on Alfenheim. _

_That meant we were mostly likely being shot at by elves._

_Elves were supposed to be peaceful._

_Ok, if dealing with a HYDRA invasion and my murderous brother weren't bad enough, this just got a whole lot worse._

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Newcomers: I hope you love the book to come, but if you feel lost with all the history, just catch up with the "SHIELD Mission Brief" on my profile page. virtually every single one of my stories has become a single massive canon leading up to this ONE FINAL MOMENT

Everyone: This is going to be Epic. Like, 20+ chapters worth of epicness. From Germany to Alfheimr, to the White house, we are going to cover it all with mass destruction, excitement, and prejudice. Timeline? This takes place during and directly following Captain America 2 and the last few episodes of Agents of SHIELD. Everyone gets a chance to play!

Characters: This time we focus on Clint, Tony, Steve, there are major appearances by Natasha, Bruce, Pepper, Thor, and Charles "Barney" Barton, and lesser characters include Spider-Man, Grant Ward, King Rinon, Queen Fehreh, Odin, and much much more!

Hold on to your pants, and send me reviews of your excitement. Soon, you will have your hearts excavated!


	2. Clint's Apartment

**OK, so this chapter may read a little differently, because i accidentally deleted it and all the changes i made:(**

**so let's just say this is the "new and improved" version**

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**Chapter 1 - Clint's Apartment-**

Fury walked into the old apartment on Tenth Street, dusting the bottom of his leather jacket from the grime left by the exhaust-pipe dust of New York City. Why Clint ever decided to settle here after leaving SHIELD, the man could only guess. According to news reports, agency tails, and everyone else he'd unofficially stuck on the Hawkeye watch list, Clint had turned himself around. He went from a top level assassin, as good as Romanov and as deadly as Ebola, to a drunk living his life out of a bottle. The change didn't make sense. Fury liked dealing in the whys, and why Clint left never sat right with him. After months of losing the man who, apparently did what he could to stay out of the lime light, Barton contacted him out of the blue with little more than an address and a time.

Looking up at the old brick-face building nestled in the heart of New York's Harlem streets, Fury had a temporary sense of nostalgia. A long time ago he might have called a place like this home. He didn't look down on the inhabitants now. If he did the mother people never believed he had would crawl up out of her grave and slap his other eye out of his head.

There were a few men down the block prepping for a pick up basketball game in the coming twilight hours. Others sat on their stoops and looked out at the world through marijuana goggles. He knew well enough to keep his eyes on his own concerns.

The front door of the brick-face Harlem heirloom swung open on one busted hinge. He could here the mix of Latin accents screaming in crescendo with televisions, a child crying, and somewhere in the basement two cats were either mating or killing each other. The odor of drugs, old booze, and stale street sneakers permeated the air like the cloud in a public bathroom. He pulled up the collar of his jacket a little against the scent.

According to Barton's curt directions, he lived on the third floor. One wood railing stairwell led inevitably upward into the second story where he could here the child crying. Somewhere in the distance of the hall a window crashed. No one came out from behind their doors to check what may be the matter. He left it be and continued up. Clint's text mentioned Room 34. He'd been careful when he sent it, using a program that caused the message to erase automatically after only five or six seconds. Fury had a photographic memory which Barton would have known very well. Why the extra care, though?

He stepped out onto the landing, avoiding the pile of old glass bottles someone collected outside their room door. Beside it was a stack of newspapers no less than fourteen high, all from the same date three months prior. _Hoarder_, Fury assessed briefly. Across from him the door opened a few inches. A small brown child stood staring at him from the crack with the security chain dangling above him. He'd been stuffed into his too-small pajamas already in lieu of his coming bed time.

Fury crouched down a little across from him. "You see a white guy around here? Has a big dog and a bow?" He asked.

The child sucked on the thumb trapped between his teeth but grinned a little with Fury's introduction. "I like his dog." He said.

"Can you tell me where to find him?"

The boy leaned forward through the crack to peer up the hall. He pointed to a door with his moist thumb and returned it to his mouth.

"Thanks, kid. Go back inside and close the door." Fury said.

The boy did as he was told.

Straightening up, the Director continued forward. He began assessing the outside to Clint's entrance. No sign of newspapers, mail, or errant beer bottles. No bowl of food for stray cats. No bullet holes, arrow heads, or other aberrant marks. So attentive was his inspection, he nearly threw himself through a wall at the sudden onslaught of .38 caliber rounds that flew through the wall to his right. He dodged out of the way and reached for his own pistol as the room door across from Clint's slammed open and a man went running out with only half his pants pulled on. As he rushed by, a woman followed him, cursing in Spanglish and brandishing her .38 Special. Apparently Miguel was a two-timing-something-or-other that deserved everything she had the ability to hit him with. Given her poor aim point blank, Fury figured the couple could hammer out their own differences. For him, it was safer to get into Clint's room and out of the open hallway. The door was left open for him. Clint had probably seen him from the street and unlocked it.

The ex-SHIELD agent sat on the old leather chair he recovered from the Salvation Army in Jersey City. The intricate stain glass window stood out of place for this end of the city, but it provided a dramatic lighting Clint must have hoped to take advantage of. His wolf, Arrow, nestled at his feet, bigger than ever Fury remembered. He hadn't spoken to Clint face-to-face since the agent turned in his walking papers.

"Barton." Fury said the name as if it pained him. He and Clint hadn't exactly been on speaking terms after the archer stormed out. Then again, Fury had attempted to pull rank. And shoot him. And drop him into Coulson's empty grave.

"Nick." Clint replied. The wolf let out a rib-rattling growl. With a single look from the ex-agent, the animal stopped.

Fury considered moving further into the room, but with the evil eye he was getting from Arrow, he decided against it. "Didn't find you at the Avengers Tower, Stark says you moved out."

Clint shrugged. "It was on all the news channels almost seven months ago. I sincerely doubt you had to go all the way to the Tower to realize I wasn't there. Maybe I got tired of my own agency spying on me."

Fury cast his one-eyed gaze around the apartment. It didn't take long to realize that not a scrap of electronic material manufactured after 1986 existed here. So Fury's assumptions proved true, Clint took himself off the grid.

"Most spies get used to the idea." Fury said.

Arrow lifted his head. There existed an unknown bond between the dire wolf and the archer. Bruce Banner once tried to quantify the depth of it, but the best theory formulated was that the two could connect telepathically. When dealing with the alien canid, such a farfetched idea had to be considered. When Clint left for missions, and before he quit SHIELD and the Avengers, Tony ran his own curious diagnostics but got just as much information as Bruce.

"I didn't." Clint retorted. His tone remained conversational without a fierce edge Fury came to expect since their last meeting. If he had the notion to get angry, the Director knew he'd be dog chow.

"Barton, we need to bring you in."

Clint scoffed. Arrow lowered his head to his fist sized paws. "Some people have been saying you've got a screw loose. Seeing it first hand is a little . . ." Clint quirked up the corner of his mouth. "Intriguing."

"I don't got time to sit here and slap jaws with you." Fury said.

"Haven't seen you in months, Nick. I've got all the time in the world."

"Agent Romanov's on an extraction assignment with Cap, trying to get our agents off a ship stranded in the middle of nowhere. They're doing her part."

Clint stood. The wolf rose beside him, its back on par with Clint's chest. If Fury thought him big before, he could certifiably say the thing was a monster. Clint left him in the shadow of the front door and went into the little wedge of a kitchen. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the hot plate, did not offer one to Fury, and stirred in a few spoons full of sugar.

Fury slipped his hands into his pocket. He knew Clint's motives had to be more than what he'd been told. Though never his most cooperative agent, "I know you took a set against us after Agent Ward tried to kill you. And I know that you've been in contact with Agent Coulson. What I don't know is what in all that turned into the final straw that took one of my best agents and made him a New York hermit."

Arrow strode forward gracefully, his paws hardly making a sound. The wolf reached out and scratched down Clint's jeans with his nails, then sat. Clint turned his attention downward. The wolf looked at Fury and tilted his head and then Clint's attention refocused on the Director.

Fury had seen this behavior analysis before from some reports he'd received on Barton's former surveillance team. Arrow became his alert dog for lack of better word. When Clint went deaf suddenly on a mission, the wolf naturally overtook the roll of guardian, friend, and service dog.

"I thought the science twins installed a microchip in your brain so you didn't have to read my lips." Fury said.

Clint smirked. "I heard you were coming, so I turned off the frequency. Can't be too careful with you, Nick."

"Does this mean I'm calling you Clint now?"

"I think Hawkeye is fine. And if you think I believe you about sending Nat with Steve to rescue a couple of agents, you're crazy. She's not an extraction specialist, she's _your_ specialist. I can bet a thousand dollars it had something to do with information."

"So is that you confirming you've had no contact with the Avengers since yours and Stark's very public fall out?"

Clint sipped his coffee. "I've contacted them twice."

Fury allowed himself a brief, uncharacteristic grin. He glanced around the place. The living room had nothing but the procured leather chair and intricate window sitting across from a rabbit-ear television on a folding TV tray. The kitchen had two mini fridges stacked one on top of the other, no microwave, only a single camping-style hotplate powered by a propane tank. None of the cupboards had doors, allowing him a look into Clint's diet. Rice crispies, pop tarts, and ready-made meals mostly.

"A thousand bucks? Looks like you could use it."

"I need to pay my cocaine guy." Clint replied evenly. "You've got Nat out doing your dirty deeds. I'm sure you've kept Steve in the dark. You haven't been to any of Banner's classes, but I know your agents have been. And right before I quit, SHIELD tried to install a woman in Stark Industries. What could you possibly want from me? Seems you've buttoned everyone up pretty tight."

Fury folded his arms across his chest. "Look, Barton. I'm not here to come crawling after you. And as I remember it, you invited me out to your little Hobbit-hole. I did think you wanted to know that SHIELD picked up a lead on your brother."

Arrow's lips pulled upward, barring teeth.

Fury continued. The single chocolate eye bore down on Clint. "I sent in a few agents to pick him up, but you know Charles Barton better than we do and what he's capable of. Germany. We know he was involved in Blackstone."

Clint laughed. He poured what remained of his coffee down the sink. "Blackstone. Do you remember the first time I flung that crap at you? You told me I was nuts."

"It was a day after you were possessed by Loki. Barton, you _were_ nuts."

"Then I find evidence that your SHIELD plant, the girl that goes and woos Banner all over the city is working for them? That a secret organization is working _IN_ SHIELD, under our very noses, and you told me what exactly?"

Fury didn't take the bait.

"You told me I was delusional. Then you told me to track Banner down and force him back to the Tower. And then where do you stick me for a month? In the middle of the desert trying to get a dead Phil Coulson out of Libya after I find out that Thor's mother died."

Sensing his master's discontent, Arrow shoved his head beneath Clint's hand, forcing a pet.

"What did that dead Phil Coulson tell me? That not only does Blackstone exist, but that my sealed case file was littered with it. That I was at the Tesseract base to begin with just to clean up the agents that infiltrated SHIELD and that everyone I killed was actually a Blackstone agent. Don't you think that's something I should have been reminded of, Nick?"

Fury never looked uncomfortable. Even in a situation that was spiraling out of his control. He remained at his traditional tensed ease. He allowed Clint to finish the rant without attempting to stop him. When finished, Fury arched his eyebrow. "You done complaining, prom queen?"

"No." Clint stubbornly replied.

"Well I'm sick of listening. You know what your problem is, Barton?"

"My devilish good looks?"

Fury ignored that. "You forget what the word 'spy' means."

Clint took a step toward him, Arrow shoved over to let him pass. "Don't put that on me, Fury! I gave you my life how many times? Who gave you the right to go into my head and scramble my memories up like Coulson? I did what you wanted. I did the missions no one else would take. I bled enough for SHIELD."

"I'm not dragging you anywhere." Fury told him. He unfolded his hands and straightened. "The missions there. The team's in Germany. If you want to go, then go. You don't take this chance, then it's the last time I'm coming here to tell you your crazy blood brother, who tortured you and turned you into a recovering drug addict, turned up on my radar."

The hit caught Clint in his core. He felt prepared for Fury to get dirty with him, but it didn't make the matter any easier. He also knew that a few months' worth of very important work waiting in a spiral bound folder just for when the director came knocking on his door. He walked back across the room and to the only closed door in the space. Turning the knob, he pushed it open and kicked a thumb toward the room.

Fury figured Clint wouldn't be giving him a more formal invitation, so he played along. Crossing the dilapidated living room he entered through the doorway Clint stood by. A single light hung from the ceiling but seven lined the workspace on the entire right corner. A futon served as Barton's bed and faced the L-shaped desk built into the wall. What Fury found in that room simultaneously confirmed and thwarted all of his fears for Clint Barton's mental health.

"We agreed as a group that one of us needed to go under deep cover." Clint explained as he followed Fury into the space. "I was the natural choice. We considered Natasha, but circumstances played me up a little better than her."

Fury approached the intricate network of hardcopy photos pasted like wallpaper above the desk. Stacks of files filled every corner of the woodwork bellow the collage. Clint's handwriting occupied twelve spiral bound notebooks, napkins, leaflets, and the backs of state programs. He had tickets to concerts, play bills, photos of congress meetings and private hands shaking in the cover of darkness. Agent Ward, took up a left corner of his own, but the work expounded from their and flowed by interconnected lines of white masking tape. Like a spider's web it snaked across Clint's bedroom in an ever increasing circle. The deeper it went, the higher the agent level.

Clint slid onto the left of the floating desk and sat there with his feet dangling. "Tony and I staged that fight. The first step was quitting SHIELD. Bruce asked me to do it after Agent Morrissey came out as a Blackstone agent." Clint lifted a picture off his desk and handed it to Fury. In it Agent Helen Frances Morrissey stood at the Avenger's kitchen island sharing a roti with Bruce. "At first we all thought she was a SHIELD plant, but that's where everything got complicated. She was Blackstone, working inside SHIELD, and following orders from their agents. Her C.O. recruited her pre SHIELD operations, which meant Blackstone worked to find agents to join their organization before they even had SHIELD training under them. The perfect sleeper soldiers."

"I knew it wasn't true." Fury said, shaking his head. "I should have trusted my gut. You wouldn't have jumped off a deep end. not like this. Not after what your father did as a drunk. You wouldn't have let that happen to you. You were good. Even convinced me."

Clint thought about those words for a while. He wanted to feel pride in that. Tricking the original spy of all spies should make any agent smile. To him, after all he'd gone through to even get this information into the Director's hands, it ceased to matter. He was done with it. He wanted out. He needed to get back to the Tower, the Avengers, and everyone else that mattered in his life. To do that, first he must do this and turn over all his case work. Clint pulled down the picture of Grant Ward and handed that over as well. "Agent Ward, recruited by Agent Garret and chosen specifically for Coulson's new team. I knew something was off about him since the short time I did in the academy. I didn't feel too tore up when I identified him as a member of the project too. He's part of Red Water. A second faction I identified."

The director considered the two photos in his hands, then looked up at the network stretched out over him. He knew Clint had more to tell then just wanting to get out of the spy game. He could not have imagined all this. The line to Agent Ward stretched inward to an Agent Shaw. Agent Shaw went to Agent Brown, and Clark who were both listed under a separate section known as the Green Room. These led to Robson and others, all members of White Hall. "How much do the others know about what you found?"

"Nothing." Clint said. "Not yet."

"How high does this go?" he asked, setting the photos down on the desk. It was an interesting choice, he thought, that the first person Barton informed about the network was none other than Fury himself. That meant only one of two things. Either Clint trusted him to be clean, or he planned to murder Fury in the next few minutes.

To that Clint shrugged. "Tailing the level ten agents proved more time consuming. I started with the level fives, like Morrissey. They lead me to their level six and seven handlers. The sixes and sevens brought me to the eights. After three weeks, I got my first nine. The nines handled a lot of the communications. The minute I got my first, suddenly the information exploded." Clint indicated one of the spiral bound files. "That led me to the first and only Level 10 so far. Her name is Agent Yolanda Towns. I know you two were close in Munich."

Fury almost snatched the file. He took a deep breath and thumbed through the pages. It was full of photos, meeting times, phone records, and wiretaps, all of it handwritten or pasted into the hard file by Clint's hands. It was like reading over a laboratory log book. Each page was dated, signed, and sealed. He couldn't deny the evidence. In the margins he discovered a recurring, curious doodle Clint repeated on a few of the other hand written information packets. Fury angled the page to him and indicated the drawing with his thumb.

"Is this what I think it is?"

Clint didn't smile. "Denied it myself for a while. Morrissey whispered it to me before she died. It makes sense now, looking at all this."

Seeing all the evidence Fury admitted to himself the truth. He had a nagging feeling, like an itch he couldn't quite relieve himself of, that something brewed beneath the skin of SHIELD. The last few weeks it grew to an alarming level. Faced with Clint Barton's undercover work, all denial ended.

"HYDRA." Fury muttered. "How the Hell did you do all this, Barton?"

"Time." Clint said. "Helps when the whole world stops looking at you. When SHIELD thinks you've given up. When you let a couple agents tail you down a few dark alleys and they watch you pass out drunk in a couple parks. After a while they stop tailing. They stop talking. That's when I could finally get to work."

Fury shook his head.

"You need a beer?" Clint asked him.

The director let the Agent Towns file fall onto the desk. He crossed his arms. "I feel like I need a good something." He turned away from the work so his single eye could face his former agent. "Is this you trusting me with this hornets' nest you're kicking? Or is this you wondering whether or not I'm the queen bee?"

"Never figured you for a queen, sir."

"Cut the crap, Barton."

Clint slid off the desk. His arms folded across his chest. "All right, truth. Truth is something big is going on and it's dropping pretty soon. I've seen more chatter between the lower agents now than ever before. They're spreading out, covering the different SHIELD bases from D.C. to the Fridge. I think you should start looking into who you really trust, because when this," he indicated the spider web of agents. "blows up, it's going to be one Hell of a cleanup."

"Forget cleanup, this is like setting off a bomb in a guy's chest."

"I don't know where you've got Nat, but you have to pull her out." Clint told him. "Steve too. They're open targets."

"You know I can't do that. Not even if I wanted to. I got a call last night about our boat getting hijacked in the middle of enemy waters. I've already sent both of them in to deal with it. They've gone dark." Fury told him.

"If I go back out there, and Hydra realizes I've been on to them, then this entire network's coming down on me." Clint point out. "So let me ask you, how well do you trust that intel on my brother?"

"It came straight from Sitwell." Fury said as if it meant something. To him, one time, it did. Agent Sitwell still remained a top agent in his mind, though this spider web did make him think twice on that. "Currently he's on that boat The Cap and Romanov are tracking down."

"His info came before the hijacking?"

Fury nodded.

The silence slipped between them as they contemplated the revelation together. Here Nick Fury intended to waltz up to Clint's crappy Harlem residence, talk to the guy for a few minutes about duty and country, and all those things that made Captain America tick in order to get one his top agents back into the field. Instead, he got an education he never expected from an agent who not only never really quit, he was working harder than Fury had ever seen him in his life. He didn't exactly expect this meeting to go well. He knew Clint was bitter about leaving the organization that supported him for so long, but he also knew Clint felt betrayed by them. Hell, he had a right to be and it took Bruce Banner to force that out of him. Fury wasn't sure whether dangling the carrot of Clint's brother was going to be enough to get the former agent back onto a field assignment especially given this new information, but it was worth a try. Fury had precious few people left in the world he trusted and now even those he considered close were officially off his short list. Even if Clint could be mad as a rabid dog, he was still loyal to his friends and a reliable man.

"I don't know that I can go." Clint said after a time.

:(:):(:):

Fury made it down the dilapidated staircase and out the front door. Few other residents of the apartment showed themselves when they noticed the tall one-eyed black man walking around in nothing but leather. Most of them probably thought he was a gang leader given this part of the city. Why Clint felt the need to live in the projects, Fury couldn't imagine.

He avoided the glares from the pickup street basketball players and headed for his SUV. He wasn't surprised to find all of his tires in working order. The defense systems on his baby had enough juice to stop, restart, and stop again the hearts of forty five men in a single jolt. By the look of the two hoods sitting on a stoop across from him, they'd already found that out the hard way.

"Director?"

Fury felt the presence to his left but didn't' acknowledge it at first. He had his single eye on the pickup basketball players who were making their way toward them.

"Yeah, Barton?" he asked.

"When's the plane leave?"

The dunk players were at them now, uncomfortably close. Eleven in total counting the man sitting out. Including the two now straightening on the stoop made thirteen. Fury could handle thirteen. He knew that the wolf, whose hologram projecting collar made him look like a Belgian Malinois, could take out that many on his own. Adding Clint to the mix was a piece of cake.

Assessment made, Fury turned his attention to Barton. "This you accepting?"

"Yo, Hawk, yo."

Clint turned to the first man in the basketball group. He was tall and slim with jail tattoos beneath both eyes and a stickered ball cap. "Hey, Kill."

"This sucka botherin' ya?" He gestured toward Fury in a way that might have seemed threatening to a man who hadn't grown up on the same streets.

"Old boss, you know how it is." Clint said.

The gaggle laughed.

Clint took a key out of his pocket and handed it to the man known as Kill. "Raid the freezer. I'll be out a while. Keep an eye 'round here for me? Keep my room locked, K?"

"Anythin' for the Hawk, man." Kill held out his hand, Clint took it and the two made a few gripping passes before bumping shoulders. Kill shoved the key into his pocket, took the basketball from another man, and headed back down the way they'd come.

When Clint's attention returned to Fury, the man's eyebrow had made another trek up his forehead.

"Is this me finding out you don't live in this hole just to get away from SHIELD."

"I bought the entire building. I'm not poor." Clint told him. "And Kill's grandma is a nice woman who makes me sugar cookies every holiday. For her, Saturday is a holiday."

The one eye rolled and Fury opened his SUV door. He climbed into the driver's seat, knowing Clint would do the honors of letting himself in. What he did not expect was the back door to open and the wolf to jump on the seats. The massive head swung around and suddenly a hot nose breathed in his ear. Clint took the passenger seat.

"Hell no. No dogs in the car!" Fury shouted.

Clint scoffed. "Oh, I'm sorry. Let me call up my dire wolf sitter at three a.m. on a Wednesday night and see if they are available. Or better yet, let's buzz by Stark's place and drop him off, I'm sure you won't mind seeing Tony. Or we can drive the couple hours down to Princeton and see if Bruce is at the apartment and doesn't mind wondering why I'm running off in the middle of the night with Director Fury."

"You know you can be one sorry, annoying little pain in the—"

"Be nice." Clint interrupted. "My wolf can kill you."


	3. Comrades

_Thank you for all the well-wishes! My patient did great and the world is safe with one less intact male. (All other intact males look out)_

_I remember when we started this journey together. I had just been accepted to vet school. My how time flies!_

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**Chapter 2 - Comrades-**

The wind beat off the snow ridden mountains with such otherworldly force, vortices swirled into the sky. Like thousand foot tall tornadoes, the white drifts kicked up around the ledge Clint and Arrow took shelter on. He watched the unrestrained fury of the storm for some time, but eventually, the frozen wasteland pulled him back into the warmth of the outcropping. Arrow watched him go, but remained on the ledge, with eyes trained on the distant white out.

Clint pulled his fleece collar up over his exposed ears. Frostbite threatened to step in the moment they headed into the mountains. The Bavarian Alps were a mass collection of summits, stretching thousands of feet straight up. Like scenes from Dracula movies, the place felt like an icy death sentence; a frozen Hell with an evac route nowhere in sight, a lonely peak of isolation Clint would have preferred to track through alone. But Fury never gave him that option.

He buttoned the top clasp of his jacket before returning to the fire pit. He hadn't seen a difference between day and night for three days. The overwhelming grey encompassed everything around them from a storm front that had moved into the mountain peaks as they first set out. According to the NOAA reports, it would clear soon, but for now, they resided in the little visibility and freezing conditions. Arrow didn't mind at all. He'd developed a thick winter coat, seemingly overnight, and spent the majority of his time tracking ahead of the agents. No doubt he'd uncover the base of Charles Bernard Barton before any others.

Twelve other agents had been assigned to the mission. Since leaving the pickup point in New York, Clint cut the rank down to six. He wanted more time, time Fury refused to give him, in order to clear the background of those agents he followed out. The last thing he wanted was to end up on some abandoned mountain top in the middle of the Bavarian Alps with twelve HYDRA agents. Taking the time he needed to feel comfortable with would take too long. They had a current lock on Charles Barton, which meant they had to move now, before Clint's brother disappeared again.

The five remaining agents turned their eyes to him as Clint came back to the fold. One man, Gil Perez, grinned at him.

"Cold as brass nuts out there." He said.

Clint nodded a little, taking a spot by the flames. He hadn't done much by way of conversation with the rag tag band of operatives, mostly because they didn't trust him. The feeling was mutual.

To all the members of SHIELD and the television-viewing world at large, Clint had turned into a screw up, drunk, homeless idiot who quit SHIELD and the Avengers to live his life out of a paper bag covered bottle. These men knew very little of his true reason for leaving the organizations, and he didn't pretend to trust them with the reality. Perez made some effort to reach out where the others did not.

"That's a good way to put it." Clint replied.

"I think my left lung frosted over somewhere around four-thousand feet."

"Sounds about right."

A few pairs of eyes remained on him, while others worked over the rehydrated food in the fire. Not to be deterred by Clint's noncommittal responses, Perez continued the conversation one-sided.

"I'm surprised you even decided to come. The last time anyone heard something of you, Hawkeye, was like two months ago. Didn't you crash some dude's cab in Jersey City?"

Now the eyes returned to him, though Clint didn't spare them any glances. Undaunted by his silence on the topic, Perez kept on.

"I heard some guy spotted you making out with that chick from Jersey Shore. She went all over TV, blasting you for fathering her kid. Cute little girl. You ever see them? They compared photos and everything, I thought it looked legit."

Clint raised a hand to his face and rubbed the creases between his eyebrows. He never liked small talk, and liked it even less when the conversation was just plain stupid. As much as the guy tried to get a rise out of him, Clint resisted the temptation to lash out.

Before Perez could start on another track of questioning, Agent Rove spoke for the first time.

"I heard you put a bullet in your mouth." His steely gray eyes burned a hole into the side of Clint's head. "I was happy. Saved me from tracking you down one day, and doing it myself for killing Mickelson during the Heli-carrier attack."

That caught his attention. Barton spared him a glance that held little emotion behind it. "Rove, right?"

The guy's chin jutted out.

"I remember you; trained by Agent Garrett, and stationed two tours in the desert. Purple heart for injuries received at the business end of a Jupiter missile, made by Stark Technologies and sold to enemies of our country. Nobody cared to look into the fact that you took two rounds into your big toe. Now, if it had been Jupiter missile shrapnel, you wouldn't currently own a foot. Seeing as SHIELD didn't put in a requisition for a peg leg replacement, and you still own two feet made of meat and bone, I, therefore, conclude you didn't suffer with missile shrapnel, and instead put two rounds from your .45 sidearm into your own flesh in order to get out of a crappy tour in Iraq."

The chin remained pushed out as if to protest the man's estimation of himself, but Rove refused to speak, attesting to the reality of his guilt.

Across from Rove, and sitting to Clint's right, was Mark Howler. Where Rove failed to defend himself, Howler stepped in.

"You talk like you're some saint, Barton. We all know the truth. We knew before Loki hit and screwed this world up. You aren't a part of us, or this team, and you never were. Why Fury pulled you out of whatever rat hole you hide in nowadays to help on this mission, I can't guess. But let's get one thing straight." He stood. At six and a half feet tall, the man towered over Clint's smaller frame. The cave's low hung ceiling pressed into the crown of his balaclava, creating in him a look of gargantuan proportions. "We are out in this frozen purgatory because _your_ brother lost his mind. If I've got to bury two Barton's on this God-forsaken land, then I'm not shedding any tears about it."

A massive growl filled the cave walls and churned the bones of those huddling for warmth. The group shifted half to their feet, some with guns leaping from their holsters and into their hands. At the mouth of the cave, a two hundred pound dire wolf stood with his hackles raised. Glaring crystal eyes shone through the darkness at them, the fire light flicking against their reflective sheen and creating the image very resembling a devil's hellhound. Bone white teeth, as long as fingers, separated while the lips curled up and back. Again, the wolf snarled, stepping forward with a snap of its jaws. In a wave of movement, the men jumped back and away from the mouth of the cave, terrified of Clint's wolf. Barton merely got up and casually strolled over to Arrow

.

"Nice talk, guys, love the comradery. But if you're wondering why I don't like people, I think you have to sit and go through everything you've just said to me again. Oh, and you look so much more intimidating when you stand up. Seriously." With Arrow in tow, Clint headed back to the mouth of the cave. So much for a little down time conversation. He officially intended to keep everyone of these agents at a distance. It was him and Arrow from here out.

* * *

I know this chapter was on the shorter side, but dear Jesus, this coming one is going to blow your minds and I didn't want to give that up too fast.

**Please review!**

_Next time: Good Boy_


	4. Good Boy

_So few reviews last chapter! Oh, i forgive, it was very short. _

_this time, I NEED your feedback. Hold onto your pants!_

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**Chapter 3 - Good Boy-**

He planned to keep in touch with Fury every twelve hours. The SAT phones distributed to all field agents had remarkable ability to catch a signal, even in the middle of nowhere surrounded by land formations and weather interferences. Already, Clint successfully checked in six times without fail. Each of which put him into direct contact with Nick Fury's private line. On the fourth morning of his mountain hike in the company of the six agents he couldn't trust, Fury stopped answering.

At first, Clint assumed that his good luck with keeping a signal had finally run out. He checked the digital readout. The second battery pack he installed the night prior continued to hold strong at four bars out of four, but still no luck as far as getting through to the Director.

Day six, and still no luck. The massive Eiger peak loomed ahead of them, and threatened to dump another colossal storm on the specs of men crawling near its base. The hideout of Charles Barton was said to exist on the North Face of the mountain. If the weather turned back to cooperating blue skies, they may make it within scouting range by nightfall. Of course, no one wanted to stalk around North Face in the twenty-degree below zero weather. That would wait until the morning.

As their journey marched ever onward, Clint took a moment to slow his tracks. The snow welled up around his boots, the air made it as dry as grains of desert sand, giving a haunting quality to their already dismal mission. He glared into the SAT phone, willing the connection to go through.

After a time of bending his frozen fingers against the plastic coated keys, he at last succeeded in catching the satellite signal he hoped for. Fury's number, already on the call list, went through almost instantly. Unfortunately, his ability to place a call did not reflect on his chance at speaking to the Director himself. Inexplicably, an entirely different voice answered him back.

_"State your name and reason of calling."_ The authoritative voice droned at him.

Not expecting to be met with hostility, let alone a foreign voice on Fury's direct line, Clint floundered for a moment.

"This is..." What could he say? He wasn't Agent Barton any longer, neither was he an Avenger. "This is Hawkeye contacting Director Fury personally. Who is this?"

The voice on the other end hardly missed a beat. With an unfeeling platitude, it replied, "The Director is dead. State your location."

Something deep in Clint's chest thudded forward against his ribcage. After some time, it crashed forward again, as if attempting to carve its way out from between his ribs to find solace in the frozen waste. It took a few rounds of feeling the pound . . . pound . . . pound before he realized the culprit was his heart attempting to restart like an old car battery. Ahead of him, the six agents stood in a fanned out pattern, following the wedge-shaped trail left in the wake of Arrow's tracking beyond them. Canyon walls rose up on either side, creating crescent shaped peaks hidden within the layers of thick grey clouds. The snow simultaneously eased and beat downward with a feral drive. The pace slowed considerably because of it.

"What is it?" Perez asked. He glanced back over his shoulder and noticed Clint had stopped walking.

_"Did you copy?"_ The disembodied voice continued, berating Clint.

"Repeat that order." Barton replied.

_"You heard me the first time, Clint. Fury's dead. What's your location?"_

Now the others stopped as well. They turned their backs to the storm's fierce winds, gold glazed eyes pierced at him from the cover of their ski goggles. If Clint thought he was alone before, sitting on that mountain top tracking down his murderous brother, he had no concept of the real depth of that feeling.

Who knew about the HYDRA connection beside the Director? Peter Parker? He had no real clue how deep the investigation went, Clint kept him from that. The other Avengers? He had planned to let Fury handle that angle, and now where did that hope leave him?

"Barton?" The closest agent, Howler, asked. He took the slightest step back to Clint's position. A good twenty yards kept them apart.

"I just spoke with the Director 12 hours ago. I don't believe that he's dead." Barton bluffed.

_"I know you think you're clever, Clint, but we've been working pretty hard here ourselves. I hope you didn't think that, after five decades of work, a stupid orphan-turned field agent like you could take us down."_

A hard wind whipped into Clint's face, blowing his hood back to his shoulders. He ducked into it, his eyes dropping from those agents who continued to approach him.

_"We've had you made since you dropped in on our little party a few weeks back. We've planned this very carefully, you see. It all started out with a call to some pirates on our payroll. Then Sitwell goes and gets himself kidnapped, making Captain America and the Widow herself go in to bail him out. All in the short time that Nick came to visit you . . . __I knew you wouldn't leave the shadow of your friends, not without some considerable bait. So I offered you the one thing you wanted most: A shot at revenge. A shot at spilling your own blood. OUR blood."_

"Barney!" Clint exclaimed, the wind rushing off with his words. The cold forgotten, the world falling away at his feet, Clint jammed the SAT phone against his ear to hear better.

_"I sent my soldier to kill Fury. He littered his body with bullets, and left him bleeding on the good Captain's floor. Widow took it personally, I think."_

"Barney, whatever this is you're doing, stop! Please, just come out here and let's talk about this! I'll fight you if that's what you want, but you're my brother! We only have each other, don't make me do this!"

_"Make you?"_ Barney laughed, a maniacal cackle that buzzed with a lightning of its own through the receiver. _"When I'm finished, you are going to BEG to!"_

The connection ended as abruptly as it began. Clint forced his eyes up, scrubbing the backs of his gloves against the ski goggles to see where the other agents were in relation to his position. To his shock, they were gone. Like marines blending into a jungle, the men faded into the hazy wind the mountain slope blew down on them. Visibility dropped to three feet at most. Clint credited the fortuitous timing for the sparing of his life.

The rapport, of a silenced 9mm sidearm, could be difficult to distinguish from any other high pitched whistle, if one is in an area of high traffic or ambient sound. When standing in the gully of a mountain plateau, surrounded by a horseshoe of peaks and valleys, the sound is impossible to mistake. Words flew through Clint's brain like a side show marquee.

Increased activity. Cover up. Kill the evidence. Bury him deep. No one will know. No one will ever know.

He dove into the thigh deep snow, burrowing into a bank of the sand-like dry flakes to find some sort of vantage point to defend himself. No doubt the agents expected him to stay on his feet, face them like men, or take off for the line of dead pines and timbers bordering the west of the valley. He could wait them out, pick them off one by one if possible. It was either him or them, and he was not about to die in the Alps at the hands of HYDRA.

Clint weighed his options as the fog threatened to lift, exposing his position. He had to alert the others. That, alone, outweighed even his personal safety. He risked grabbing out the SAT phone again. With a practiced air, he dialed in Stark's number and punched the send key. No call signal. He pulled the phone away, and read what he already expected; the signal died the minute he'd hung up with Barney. No doubt his brother had something to do with the bad reception.

Another warning shot scattered to Clint's left. He narrowly avoided the carve it desperately wanted to take out of his cheek. He had enough scars on his face to worry over, without adding to his collection.

He needed to act fast and silent. Even letting loose with a round from his P30, meant the others could narrow down his location and converge to finish him off. Most likely, he'd take a couple out, but eventually one of them was going to hit back. And Clint couldn't drag himself off the mountain with a bullet in his flesh. He needed stealth like they had. Clint's only option came with added insurance.

He hadn't summoned his Asgardian bow in over seven months. The unique foreign signature of Odin's gift made it so SHIELD had a way of tracking his location. If Clint didn't even switch on his hearing aids in Fury's presence, using his alien weapon was out of the question. But all those months ago, when the Avengers finalized Clint's exit from the team, it had been Thor's suggestion to have an emergency beacon for Clint to use should his trouble fall to such proportions that even _he_ couldn't dig his way out again. The bow became that beacon. Tracked 24/7 by Tony and Banner, the minute Clint summoned it to his hands, both would know to come running. He just hoped they came fast enough.

The bow also offered the one thing he needed presently: stealth. Before leaving the Avengers, Tony and Clint both had worked on a new portable method of keeping his arrows handy. Based off of the technology Tony developed for his portable Iron Man suit, the end result was a clip, similar to a gun clip, with individual arrows collapsed into themselves. Stealing one from his gun belt, Clint flicked his wrist, breaking the cohesion of the metal and launching the arrow out to its full length. The prototypes didn't work as well as he needed. They had a tendency to collapse into a victim, and deal less deadly blows, but they had to do.

He set the first one to his bow string, feeling the familiar pull from the fine horse hair and the milky smooth hand grip fall into place. He had forgotten the love he had for this weapon. Like two friends meeting again after a long separation, he resisted the urge to hug the limbs to his chest in excitement.

"Oh, baby, I've missed you." Clint whispered to the string against his lips as he scanned the horizon. A third shot pinged uselessly behind him, giving him the location of the shooter via the muzzle flash just ahead. Without waiting, he took the shot.

A body hit the ground with the silence of snow dropping from a tree limb. Someone close by exclaimed, thumped as they ran toward Clint's position. Three shots fired in quick succession coming closer, closer, closer. Clint opened another arrow, set it to the nocking point, and fired as the man stepped out of the fog. The arrow tip pierced the center of his forehead and collapsed down. No matter, he was already dead.

_Two down,_ Clint counted to himself.

He waited, listening to the wind for the whispers of flying lead to crash by. For a time, he heard little besides the rustle of snow drifting against him. The piles built, hitting his right before whipping up and over his legs until they too were buried beneath the white. The cold soaked into his core. His body shivered involuntarily as it attempted to raise his body temp above freezing. He had to get warm, but first he needed to survive.

Crunching snow to his left.

He slowly raised his head and angled back to see who it may be. Black hair. Long white coat. Red gloves - Landau! Just slightly behind him stood a second man. His grey coat stopped at the waist, extending down to blue and white camouflaged pants...Perez.

Clint had a single arrow on his bowstring, but with the advent of a second man, he extended another arrow and placed it on the string just below the first. Most archers wouldn't dream of shooting two arrows, from the same string, at the same time, but Clint had enough experience to do that and more.

The men swept the area, striking forward one step at a time with their guns cocked and ready. They pivoted at the waist, first right, then left, and then took another step. In no time, they would turn toward him, and Clint would be a sitting duck.

Without waiting for that moment, he fired. The first arrow struck Perez in the broad side, passing below his ribs and through his soft organs, before appearing out the opposite side. He dropped, tinting the snow red, as his spleen let loose a cascade of blood. The second arrow hit Landau in the neck.

Landau didn't die at first. He twisted toward the hiding archer, spraying the air with his automatic and lining the snow in fresh bullets. Casings poured out around him, melting to the ground. Clint pulled another arrow, laying in perpendicular to the one already adorning his neck. With the duel piercings, Landau wobbled on his feet, sunk to his knees, and collapsed forward onto his face.

Clint panted into the burrow of snow. Too close. They'd come much too close. He had to get up. He made a move to stand. His feet curled up beneath his abdomen, packing in the snow to give himself firm footing. He raised his torso, another arrow already set to the nocking point as he scanned the wind ravaged snow.

Howler hit him next. He'd already trudged past Clint's initial position, ending up toward the mouth of the canyon. Hearing the gunshots, he quickly turned back the way he'd come and spotted Clint's outline against the white. With an arrow already set, Clint let it fly. Howler recoiled as the arrowhead burrowed into his chest, but it collapsed before dealing the death blow Clint needed. The archer scrambled, knowing he couldn't extend another arrow in time, he risked the P30 and opened fire as Howler raised the rifle. The snow in front of the archer exploded with the rifle shot, but fate again seemed to shine on him. He placed three bullets into Howler's chest alongside the arrow shaft.

He had to get up. He needed to move. There was still one man, Rove, out there in that white wasteland waiting for him. Clint pushed himself up, and stumbled as he stepped out of the hole he threw himself into. The landscape beneath him was treacherous enough without the covering of snow. A crack of ice broke the air, and struck more terror into his heart than the gun fire. Beneath him, something tore free and his feet slid into a flow of freezing water. The water grabbed at him like claws of Frost Giants. His memory flashed back to a time when a good friend, Veurr, had been swept beneath the ice on Asgard, and left to nearly drown to death. Terrified over getting pulled into an underground stream, he scrambled back on his hands and knees to get free again.

The once blinding snow and ice churned into miniature vortices, suddenly lifted. Clint's back faced the final agent. Rove felt no hesitation as he lifted his weapon for a steady shot. He saw the faces of those fellow agents, the secret agents, the HYDRA agents, that Clint had taken out over time. Rove knew, like all in HYDRA were made aware, that Clint had made fools of them. He'd exposed them to the Director. He threatened to destroy everything in a single storm. Killing Barton now, here, and leaving his body to mummify in the cold could only earn him the greatest respect. He couldn't miss.

That is, he couldn't miss if there wasn't one big obstacle in his way, and a two-hundred pound dire wolf was one mighty big obstacle.

Arrow stalked him carefully, accelerating forward with a single rocking step at a time. The minute Rove's hands raised, he knew he had to strike fast and accurate. He leaped into the air, jaws opened, perfectly silent. He didn't dare snarl, growl, or snap until the moment was right.

Clint heard a muffled whump as a body hit the snow. Pulling himself out of the icy water, he spun around to see the final agent already on the ground. Arrow stood over his kill. The playful pink tongue passed over the top jaw, pulling away the tendrils of drooling blood left behind from the clamp against Rove's jugular. Arrow's eyes locked with his Master.

"Good boy." Clint said, his throat thickened with emotion. The wolf always had his back, even when Clint didn't realize it. "Good boy, Arrow."

The wolf's head lowered just a little to acknowledge the compliment from Barton. He nosed Rove's body to assure that the agent would not be rising anytime soon. Not wanting to be far from Clint's side, Arrow stepped lightly over the body and managed his way through the snow toward Clint.

There was no silencer on the bullet that fired next. Its full power rang out, splitting the air like a clap of thunder. Arrow jumped. He snapped his head sideways, biting at the shock of pain that appeared out of thin air.

Clint's entire body spasmed. Forgetting his frozen legs, he threw himself forward. He screamed, though no words formed on his lips. An unintelligible cry of utter despair ripped out of him as his very soul cracked in half.

Another blast of a high caliber sniper rifle destroyed the solitude of the mountain side. This time, Arrow did not jump. Instead, he took half a step forward and slowly sank down on his haunches. Clint reached him. He grabbed the wolf around the neck, and pulled him down into the snow. His entire body covered the exposed side of his wolf, preventing a third bullet from tearing into his friend. But nothing more came. The loneliness of the alpine summit returned with the silence that follows a fight. Only, Clint's fight wasn't over.

"No, no, no, no, no." Clint repeated over and over, unable to believe what his eyes showed him. He lifted himself on his hands, and looked down at the grey and black frosted pelt of his wolf. The circular entrance wound started just behind the fifth rib - a shot to the heart. Could Clint fix that? Arrow was a dire wolf, he was Asgardian! If Clint could just hold him together, would the wolf heal himself? He couldn't be sure, but he had to try!

Arrow whimpered, opening his massive mouth and panting hot breaths into the snow. His head lifted, and turned to his Master to watch the man work. When Clint grabbed the wound in his hand and tried to hold Arrow back together, the wolf snapped the air and howled in pain.

Second bullet. Putting off his worry, Clint searched through Arrow's thick coat for the second gunshot wound.

"It's going to be fine." Clint whispered. His eyes teared uncontrollably. He ripped his goggles away as they clouded his vision, and tossed them off into the snow. He found the second wound, and his heart dropped. Arrow's abdomen was hard, potbellied, and swelling. The bullet entered from his broad side, and passed from left to right. Clint had seen similar shots on humans. It was a wound Trick Shot taught him, and, therefore, Charles Barton as well. Arrow was bleeding internally from a major artery.

"No, no, this can't . . . this can't happen. Arrow! Arrow, it's OK, just lay down. Stay, boy. Tony'll get here, OK? The others will get here and we'll be OK." Clint babbled incoherently. His nose ran in time with his tears. He couldn't stop them. He felt like his entire world has just collapsed in on itself.

Arrow's head stopped lifting. Clint pulled his hands away from the chest wound to snatch off his jacket. He balled it up, and stuffed it under Arrow's snout. The wolf had trouble breathing now. His eye focused on Barton's and the canine whimpered again.

Clint leaned down and buried his face against Arrow's fur.

"Don't do this. Don't go. Don't leave. Hold on, Arrow, please. They're coming. I know they are."

Despite his pain, despite the blood filling his abdomen and the pressure of it collapsing his lungs, Arrow's tongue found its way against Clint's cheek. He'd done his job. He'd protected the archer, his Master. He saved his life, and spent his days living the best way he knew how. He loved the archer, Midgard, and everyone else his Master loved.

There was a time when the wolf worried about growing old. About the day when his Master would succumb to his human life span, and leave Arrow with nothing but memories. Now, that day would not come. Arrow never needed to worry about what life without Barton may be like. He didn't like to see Clint so upset. He knew he must go, that the time was right, and soon he would climb the stars with his ancestors. He just wished this wasn't so painful for Clint.

"Arooo." The wolf muttered, struggling for comfort passed the pain and short breath.

Clint lifted his head again. His hands working out of their gloves to stroke the wolf's muzzle. "No, no, you aren't going anywhere. I'll fix this!"

Arrow licked his hand. Their eyes came together again just as Arrow's eyes unfocused for the very last time.

* * *

what. did. i. do.

on that note, PLEASE REVIEW!

Next time: Ladder to the Stars


	5. Ladder to the Stars

_SO MANY TEARS SHED! (a part of me loved it) _

_Get out those Hankies, we're not done yet!_

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**Chapter 4 - Ladder to the Stars-**

It wasn't true. He had to be dreaming. This must be some nightmare sent to him while in the cave surrounded by agents. In truth he must be on that frozen ledge with his arm around Arrow's neck, resting in the flickering light of the dying fire. The agents were behind them, stuffed into their zero exposure sleeping bags and attempting to steal some warmth from their shivering bodies. But ss much as Clint wished it away, denied it all, and even with all of his soul screaming for it all to be all right, the truth was not hiding this time.

A sniper, staked out on a small ledge on the North Face, took two perfect shots. Those shots had murdered Clint's best, and most trusted, friend. There was no reset, no going back, no second life, or spontaneous resurrection. Arrow lay in a chilling, stiffening mass of dead flesh and lifeless pelt in his hands, and Clint could do nothing beside scream.

Where had the team gone? Why didn't they show up like they promised to? This should have never happened! Arrow couldn't be dead, he . . .

Asgard. Perhaps Thor could help. Maybe Arrow could be brought back, somehow. But Clint didn't have time to wait for Thor. He stood, his voice hoarse with his terrified cries as he screamed into the mountain air.

"Heimdall! Heimdall, please open the portal! Heimdall, I need you to help me, please, God, somebody just help me!

_"BRRRRRRRRR!"_

Clint jumped with the sound of the SAT phone in his pocket. Desperately, he yanked the device from his pocket and spoke hurriedly with the expectation that it must be Tony. In his frantic mind that was the only possibility. Iron Man was coming to save him. He was going to make this all right. But before he had a chance to even speak, the voice cut him off.

_"Are you ready to beg now, Clint?"_

Barney.

A rage unlike any Clint had felt before, welled up in his chest. A feral creature churned beneath his skin, and the monster Charles desperately sought to draw from his brother came closer and closer to fruition.

"What. Have. You. Done." Clint roared.

_"Oh, I don't think you have to ask."_

A warning shot sailed just above his shoulder and burrowed harmlessly into the snow. Clint never even flinched.

_"Tell me how much you despise me. Tell me what it's like to know that SHIELD has collapsed. That no one is coming. No one is helping, and those friends you thought you had will never matter again. What is it like to know that your little red-head's every sin is on display for the world to see? How long can you keep those you love safe?"_

Another warning shot whizzed just past his face. Again, Clint stood firm in the wake of the onslaught. Barney was right. This became something so much more than a grudge match. This had been coming for a long time. Personal wasn't enough of a description. Barney took this fight of theirs to an entirely new level.

"I'm going to kill you." Clint whispered. His tone booked no room for disagreement. His mind made up. His body as tense as a powwow drum, he held onto those words like a declaration of war.

Barney's laughter didn't take him by surprise this time. In the midst of the man's guffaw, Clint switched the SAT phone off. They would meet again soon enough.

A shimmer of light took him by surprise. Clint turned back toward where Arrow's body lay lifeless. Something changed. The fur seemed to move, to swell up and crush down like a deflating balloon. Clint hit his knees again. His hands hovered over his dearest friend's body as he tried to understand what was happening. Again, the fur rose. He leaned back, drawing his hands away to prevent disturbing the body. Did Arrow live? Was he breathing?

The black tipped silver fur fell again, this time clinging against the bones of Arrow's skeleton. The muscle seemed to vanish all at once. As the fur rose, like a massive inhalation over the entire length of the wolves' body, and collapsed again the bones themselves faded to nothing. Now only the fur remained.

Clint scrambled away. What was this? Was it normal to lose a wolf this way? Would he have nothing left, not even a body, to try to heal? Why hadn't Heimdall opened the portal? Why wasn't he on Asgard? Where were the Avengers, his supposed friends, and why didn't they come to help him? Why was he watching this horrifying sight all alone, dazed and confused?

The grey clouds in the sky pulled apart. Night appeared above him. Stars dotted the sky like glitter thrown into the air. A crescent moon angled over the mountain peak above him and looked over the deflated pelt of Arrow. All at once, things changed again.

His mind took him back, to the day when he stood at Frigga's funeral and fired the arrow that would burn her body. As her ship set sail out of the Asgardian waters and into the night sky full of stars, Frigga became nothing but flecks of golden dust. She became one with the sky, one with the stars, and that was all.

Clint, at first, thought they were fireflies. Streaks of yellow and green light arose from the wolf's body, and clung to the air like stardust. Stepping back into the present, Clint watched as Arrow's body disintegrated into golden dust. When the dust climbed into the air, it took shape again. First, two slender paws kicked above the snow. The legs appeared, then shoulders, and the muzzle shook out a cascade of flecks and light. With a mighty leap the pelt completely fell away, and Clint was left staring at the bounding form of a wolf made of golden light.

He rubbed his fists into his eyes in an attempt to draw reality back. The heavens full of clouds continued to push back in a massive ring. The crescent moon beamed down on them with utter intensity. The light wolf stood across from him. Their eyes locked.

"Arrow?" Clint whispered. Was Clint going crazy? Had he lost his mind the moment those shots buried his friend? A part of him thought over Barney, and whether his brother saw what he did.

The wolf made of light tilted its head just faintly, the way Arrow used to do when he acknowledged Clint's words. He strode forward, shaking out his head, neck, and back which filled the sky in corn silk light. He stopped only a few paces from the Avenger, waiting.

Clint couldn't help but be swept away. This was a moment filled with impossibilities, but he let every single one of them, even for the briefest of moments, disintegrate from the rational part of himself. He stretched his hand forward, as if to stroke the muzzle of this light wolf the way he so often would with Arrow. A tentative nose reached out, inhaling his scent. The wolf threw back his head. His lips pursed, and all at once, the canyons rocked with the howl of the native Asgardian's spirit.

Then it ended. Like a shot, the wolf leaped for the sky over Clint's head. The archer fell backwards as he watched in memorization. Up again, climbing higher. The wolf strained against the air itself to climb, climb, and climb, up to the stars where thousands of other lights looked down on them like pairs of perfect eyes. The moon seemed to welcome him. Its light projected like halos of rainbow hues across the rolled back storm clouds. Arrow's spirit rushed past them all, leaving a trail of glowing dust, like the tail of a comet, as he crossed into the threshold of his ancestors.

Clint stared up as the world came to itself again. The moon tucked behind her cover of clouds, while the last glitters of gold faded away like firework glows. Left empty, cold, and alone, Clint looked down to the place where Arrow once lay, where now nothing remained of him beside the stains of his blood.

Time slipped by. He had no idea how long he sat, transfixed in the snow like a soul lost in purgatory. He missed the whirl of gyros and jet-engine whoosh of Tony's repulsers. He missed Steve's scream, and Tony's grab against his arm. Together, the Avengers hauled Clint to his feet and shook him back to their world.

He didn't go willingly. When his wits returned, the truth of what occurred came crashing around him again. He fought them like a devil. He blamed them for it all, even if they had no idea what transpired. Clint grabbed Steve by his shoulders and threw him to the snow. He rammed his fist into Tony's metal-plated skull, and recoiled with the crunch his knuckles suffered at the onslaught. He screamed, shaking out his fist as he doubled over. Steve leaped to his feet, grabbing Clint about the waist in an effort to restrain him, but the archer fought like a mad man.

"Why weren't you here!" Clint cried, throwing the Captain down again. "You could have stopped this, but you didn't! You didn't even come!"

Steve stayed back this time, allowing Clint enough space to calm himself.

Tony extended his hand like an olive branch. He didn't dare shed himself of his armor. "Clint, we did come. We're right here. I saw your signal, and got here the minute—"

"Not soon enough!" Barton bawled.

The Captain glanced around them to the bodies left strewn in the snow. Clint had been ambushed by a considerable number too. They were lucky they reached him, and more so to find him in one piece.

"We tried, I tried! If you'd told us you were going to Bavaria we could have been here already, on standby, or helping you! Why didn't you just tell us?" Tony shouted back.

Clint wanted to balk, slam his fist into Tony's face, or light the good Captain on fire. His emotions ran rampant throughout his skull, and he had no idea precisely what he did feel. Adrenaline surged through his veins, fueling the pain, loss, and utter despair that threatened to rend him in half, but before he had a chance to voice a single one of those feelings, his vision imploded.

Weightlessness; that was the first feeling that came when jumping through the Bifrost to another world. Had all the Nine Realms conspired to answer Clint's request for assistance long after it was too late to do anything about it? He couldn't fight the gravitational pull that sucked him upward, and threw his body into a tunnel of colors and lightning flashes. Like being shot out of a canon, he hit the ground on the other side of the portal. He lifted his head, expecting to chew out Heimdall next when a sight he never expected met him head on.

Forest. Massive trees with trunks the width of mobile homes. Branches like steel girders stretched across the clearing, seeking connection with the branches of others. Leaves, wider than hands, blotted out the patchy sky from full view, and the smell of moist earth assaulted their noses. This was not Asgard. Not by a long shot.

There was no warning preceding the sudden onslaught of arrows. Clint hadn't even a chance to fully recover from the trip through the Bifrost before the leaves around them shook with the long projectiles that rained down on the three. The minute they ht foreign soil, they were under attack.

The Captain let his shield fly, calling for Tony to get high. The billionaire hit his repulsors, and meant to rip across the air had the next arrow not come. As the foreign metal and wood shoved through Clint's body it shattered his shoulder into three pieces. The arrowhead was fired with so much force it burst straight through Clint's back and buried into Tony's armor. It missed Tony's flesh by mere millimeters of cold Iron and steel.

Even trapped, Clint tried to raise his bow, to do anything that may help them, but pinned as he was, he couldn't hope to pull his string back.

The Captain grabbed his shield back from mid air and threw himself in front of Clint. They were in a clearing, surrounded on all sides by an enemy they couldn't even see. He made the call at once to try for a retreat.

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that's all for now!

Remember to keep reviewing! they really brighten my day like you wouldn't believe!

Next time: Hunted Down


	6. Hunted Down

_Oh that last chapter still gets me. I love it so much. _

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**Chapter 5 -Hunted Down-**

"Don't! Stop, easy! Leave it alone! Ah!" Clint grabbed Steve's left shoulder. His nails dug through the fabric of the man's uniform until the flesh beneath tore. Clint's arrow-pierced body remained pinned to Iron Man's chest plate. As much as he attempted to pry free, he couldn't do the work himself.

"Stop moving around!" Steve ordered. His fingers circled the shaft.

Tony's arms remained across Clint's waist to hold up his weight. His face plate remained firmly over his features. With the warm reception Clint gave them, he didn't plan to risk another potential onslaught to his nose.

"Just unpin me. Don't pull it out. Be quick." Clint panted.

Without offering a countdown Steve yanked it once, sharply, and Clint came free. The archer eased himself down on his own two feet and shrugged himself out of Stark's grasp. The adrenaline surging through his body gave him that familiar high, the one which pulsed behind his eyeballs, bringing the world into a forbidding focus. He considered switching off his auricular implant, hiding within himself until he had a chance to understand what had just happened to him. So much occurred in such a short amount of time, it left this head spinning wildly. He hardly knew which way was up, let alone where in the realms they were.

His shoulder throbbed and bled from front to back. He almost welcomed the pain. It kept him grounded to the present, and far from thinking over his recent horrifying loss. He sensed the others speaking to him, but he cared about their words just about as much as he cared about his brotherhood to Charles Barton.

He must have walked away from them. His legs weakened with the rush of energy retreating from his veins, and Clint collapsed forward against the nearest tree. Hands again grasped him, and carefully lowered Clint to a seat. Rogers crouched in front of him, eyeing the arrow's removal.

"Leave it be." Clint whispered, too exhausted from the emotional tidal wave to resist any longer.

Sensing Clint's fatigue, Tony at last removed his helmet. He set it to the side, desperate to see Clint with his real eyes after so long apart. The man had blood splattered against most of him. His face remained tight and gaunt where weather and malnutrition stripped his body down. He had little to him besides muscle and clothing. Seeing Clint like this after so long tore at the fellow Avenger.

"Where are we?" Rogers asked, ignoring all the other obvious questions.

"Alfheimr, I think." He whispered. Clint leaned his head back against the ancient trunk, and looked up into the great limbs stretched above them. He wished he could simply lose himself there. Forget all of Midgard like usual. Whereas before, when he attempted to stave off that unhappy forgetfulness for as long as possible, now he welcomed it with open arms.

"Clint, what are we doing on Alfheimr?" Rogers pressed. He had to keep Clint talking. Tony didn't seem like much help, and already they were losing time and, Clint, losing blood.

The archer slowly closed his eyes and dropped his head from left to right. "I don't know. I just . . . I don't know."

"Hold him here, Stark." The Captain instructed.

Broken from his fixation on Clint's features, Tony leaned forward and placed his gauntlet hands where Steve instructed. Steve leaned Barton forward a little, and eyed the arrowhead. There were four sharp edges leading up to a single point. All was made from glimmering silver. They must snap it to remove the shaft. But should they?

"Leave it be." Clint whispered again.

"We can't carry you like this." Steve pointed out. "How far are we from the palace, do you think?"

"I don't know."

"Barton, look at me."

The archer refused. He felt so very tired.

Steve nodded to Tony, who traded places with the Captain. Again neglecting a warning, Tony snapped off the razor sharp point just prior to Steve yanking forward. Clint jolted with the painful onslaught. He gasped, reaching for the bleeding wound, and only managed to press his own hand over Steve's American flag red gloves. The heaviness of his eyelids lifted briefly, and for the first time he considered the faces of his friends.

"Why? Why didn't you come?" Clint asked.

"We did come. We are here now, wherever 'here' is." Tony assured him.

"Natasha?"

"Recovering. We were on lock down after SHIELD . . ." Steve paused. He leaned forward with his weight still against the bleeding injury. "Clint, what do you know about the last few days?"

"Nothing." Clint said softly. He didn't care anymore.

"HYDRA hit us hard. The Triskelion fell, Project Insight almost destroyed the most prominent people in the world, and SHIELD no longer exists. A lot of people have died. When we couldn't find you, or even reach you, we didn't know what to do. We've scoured the entire city for your location."

"I wasn't there."

"We had no idea you were in the Alps. What were you doing there? With agents, no less?"

"Fury knew where I was."

"He doesn't exactly like to share."

"He's not dead?"

"Who told you he was? How did you know that?"

Clint didn't answer him.

"He isn't dead. Not yet."

Again Barton focused on his friends around him. He felt empty and useless, just lying there in the grass beneath the shade of ancients trees. What good was he so far removed from the world? He felt the radiating throb of his shoulder, and could tell by the agony that it was broken. He couldn't even hold it up himself.

"Fury knew where I was, I told him a week ago. I suppose he didn't share. I also told him about the HYDRA infiltration, his Level 10 agents being infected, and the attack that was soon to come." He looked at Steve directly, "It was my fault you were sent to that ship with Natasha. They were onto me, and they needed to get rid of you."

Tony and Steve exchanged a furtive glance before returning their bewildered stares to Clint.

"You knew about the attack?" Tony asked, astonished.

"Weeks ago. Knew something big was . . . coming. They baited me out. Used my brother as a reason to draw me out."

"You went after him? Alone?!"

_Not, not alone. I had Arrow,_ he thought. In retrospect, Tony's anger was warranted. It hadn't been Clint's brightest idea to take out Charles Barton, on a single suicide mission, in the Bavarian Alps, with a handful of un-backgrounded SHIELD/HYDRA agents. But what did that matter now? His life amounted to nothing. All of those months he spent ferreting HYDRA out, and the attack happened without him. He shared his information with the one person he thought would make a difference, and the Director kept it to himself. Clint was reminded why he left the spy game initially.

The air filled with the sound of trumpet blasts. A second later, the trio fell under the onslaught of a thousand arrows bearing down on them. Steve wanted a chance to tie Clint's wound, or at the least immobilize his arm, but they couldn't afford the time for that. Chased into the darkness of the wood by a vastly superior force, they sought a single position from which to defend themselves. Running, at the time, became their only option.

Arrows flew from all directions, raining down upon them from the tree limbs to ground brush. Tony snapped his helmet back into place, and fired on the hidden assailants.

"Wait! What if they're friendlies?" Clint begged from Rogers' grasp.

"Does that look friendly to you?" Tony accused, clearing them a path to escape.

"If we are on Alfheimr, they may be mistaken. We should talk to them."

An arrow caught Tony between his armored chest plates, but again the steel held strong and refused to bend. He fired another warning shot into the trees, which continued to clear them a path through what they hoped would be safety. Tony took lead, and blasted ahead, with the Captain coming up behind, and an injured Clint jogging beside him. Steve covered their progress with his shield, though their assailants never struck out from behind their thick cover enough to make themselves known.

Stark tried to navigate up, but the cover of the trees became a thick, unending tangle that even his repulsors found difficulty getting through. He abandoned the task, and concentrated instead on getting his teammates out of danger. Grabbing the Captain and Clint both, Stark hit his thrusters, and the three of them put another jog of distance between themselves and their pursuers. Even as he flew, he became aware of the increasing danger surrounding them on all sides. The attack stretched on for nearly a mile, with no letup in the amount of projectiles sailing toward them. The sheer amount of manpower coming against the Avengers trio was as oppressive as the forest itself.

Was there no safety to be found anywhere?

Eventually, after nearly an hour of Tony's breakneck speed, the assault decreased. At two hours, it slowed to only a few determined men. By the third hour of straight flying, they found themselves alone at last in the woods, and Clint could go no further. Tony slowed as a quad of massive trees rose before them. It became a tight squeeze, but the men made it within, where they could duck down and hide from those who pursued them.

:(:):(:):

Barton remained upright for a time until he could no longer stand it. He didn't want to speak, interact, or even look at the men who he found himself with. All he focused on was that pain. The physical kept his mind off the mental. It kept him from coming to terms with the reality of what awaited him back on Midgard.

Arrow was dead.

Tony hadn't given up on pacing in front of him, or starting a conversation. Steve sat on the ground between them, quiet for now as he tried to assess what went on between the Avengers teammates. There were so many ways he thought this reuniting of the Avengers would go, but this he could not have imagined in his wildest dream.

"Seven months, and you spent all of it in New York?" Tony questioned. Despite the fact that Clint had only just stopped bleeding, and his arm was currently slung against his chest with the aid of his jacket sleeves, Tony couldn't help badgering him.

"No." Clint whispered.

"Then where were you?"

"Around."

"Around where? L.A.? South America? Canada? What?"

Clint sighed. He looked down at his pant legs and noticed the clumps of grey and black fur caught on the fabric. His heart squeezed in his chest once more. "D.C."

"Were you at the SHIELD base?"

"No."

"Where?"

Barton looked up at him. "What does it matter?"

"It matters because you were gone for seven months, and you look like someone locked you in the same cave as me! Is that a mission pack on you?" Tony strode forward, and picked up the back pack Clint had forgotten he had. Trudging around the Bavarian Alps came with the necessary tools for the trade, and Tony wasted no time unzipping he pockets and upending the items all over the forest floor. He found the main item he looked for, and, after stripping the wrapper off a protein bar, handed it to Clint.

"Eat that." Tony said.

Clint raised an eyebrow. "What if I'm bulimic?"

"Don't tell me that."

Clint attempted to lean forward but his shoulder jarred, causing him to stop. He inhaled sharply through his teeth as his body tensed its way through the pain. Steve stepped in and took the food from Stark before edging closer to Clint.

"Any water in that bag?" Rogers asked.

Tony found two bottles, and set them between Clint's knees. Next, he came up with a few unlabeled tablets in a ziplock bag. Concerned as to the unknown contents, his eyes narrowed at his friend. "What are these supposed to be?"

"Ibuprofen."

"Is that all these are?"

Another exacerbated look shot from Clint's crystal blue eyes to Tony's. "No, its oxytocin. I've graduated from crack to the heavy drugs and this broken shoulder says I want a hit."

Tony considered throwing the bag into the woods, never to be seen from again, but reconsidered it. Most pain medications in general didn't agree with Clint's stomach so it was unlikely he'd have a whole bag. He pulled out two and handed them to Steve. He knew Clint's shoulder was bad, shattered at least. He still had a strong pulse to his hands which Tony knew to be a good thing. The archer needed a doctor soon, though. Arrows didn't sterilize in the same way a bullet may when exiting a gun. He risked a serious infection without help. More than Clint's obvious need for physical assistance, there was something much more pressing Tony felt in him.

Steve hit on it before Iron Man had a chance to. "It's nice having you back, Hawkeye."

Clint swallowed and took a deep breath.

"We missed you at the Tower. All of us did." He unscrewed the cap of his water, and held it and the two pills out for Clint.

"Take these."

Clint obeyed.

"Eat this."

He took the power bar and glared at it. Tony crouched down in front of him and watched intently as Barton chewed on the first bite. He hadn't really noticed the weight loss before Tony made it a point to harp on it. Life became so busy lately, that doing the simple things like eating went onto the backburner. When was the last time he ate a piece of fruit, a burger, or ate something not stuffed in a Styrofoam container? Maybe his frustration with Tony was misplaced.

_No, it isn't!_ His mind told him. Tony and Steve weren't there we he needed them, and now Arrow was dead! He was never going to see the wolf again. Part of his own soul had been ripped out of his body, and he had no one to blame but them. The angrier Clint got, the more tension flooded into his muscles. His shoulders tightened, and he grabbed his pant leg in a fist to ride out the pain.

"Clint, talk to us." Steve whispered.

Clint didn't want to talk. He didn't want to go back without Arrow. That was the plan the whole time. They left SHIELD and the Avengers, struck out on their own, went undercover for seven months, and planned to go back as a team.

"Just leave it, Spangles." Clint growled back.

Tony sighed in exasperation. "Clint, seriously, you've got to - "

The snap of branches interrupted Stark before he could start laying in to his friend. Steve eased up on his knees. Stark approached the crease where two trees came together, and carefully peered out into the trees. Strolling forward, Steve took up his own vigil at the base of another tree. The coming dark of their first jungle night approached like a curtain. The thick cover above their heads made a literal example of the term nightfall. The creatures of the wood quietly shook themselves awake from their daytime slumber. Soon, the forest would be alive with all the things Thor spoke of in the direst terms.

Something moved out in the brush just north of them. Tony pulled himself back from view, using the faceplate of his Iron Man mask to scan the area. The copse of bushes rattled together. A tree limb twenty feet up bent forward, up, and crested the back of a massive skull. Tony and Steve watched as the massive cat appeared just in front of them. It was a faralir.

Veurr, an Asgardian who commanded Odin's armies as the new captain of the guard, once guided the Avengers through their first trip to Alfheimr. That was when the team had their first introduction to the beasts known as faralirs. Resembling massive cats of Earth, but with stripes and colors only the likes of James Cameron could conjure, faralirs roamed the Alfheimr jungles as apex predators. Their fangs rivaled Sabertooth tigers, and their claws could shred a man in half. Two prominent antlers rose from their skulls, with fifty razor tipped points between them. Only the bravest of Alfheimr's warriors could ride the backs of such cats. King Rinon, the leader of all Alfheimr, had the largest faralir of all as his own riding companion.

The faralir stepped from the brush, shaking the overhead branches from its antlers as it walked. The cat's nose pressed to the ground as it huffed a sweet, coppery scent to the back of its throat. The mouth opened, lips curled back, and dripping canines became exposed as all the scent of Clint's blood trail directed to its vomeronasal organ.

Tony shot a look to Steve. "We finally out run the Santa's little helpers, and we're going to get eaten by a reindeer cat."

"Don't get it mad, just scare it off." Steve told him, indicating the repulsor on Tony's gauntlet.

"Oh, I'm not turning into Fancy Feast." Tony replied. His wrist hummed to life with the pulse of energy he directed toward his hand.

Two humped shoulders slid along in synchrony. The faralir crouched on its front paws. Two massive greens eyes directed right for the circle of trees the Avengers hid within. The head dipped, the antlers aimed forward, and the eyes were fixated. Before the faralir could decide to pounce, or Tony could send a short pulse into the beast's face, a blast of distant noise split the air. The faralir shot up. Its head stretched up, exposing the silver shimmer of a shapely neck.

Another blast rocked the beast. The second sounding longer than the first. Satisfyingly spooked, the faralir forgot its quest for an easy meal and took off through the brush, its antlers expertly tucked down to keep from catching on the low hanging branches.

"I guess there's something bigger out there." Steve whispered.

"Bigger than that thing? I think we should get moving before we find out." Tony replied.

"I think you're right." Both turned back from the crack in the trees to consider Clint. Talking about moving was one thing, getting their injured teammate to go was entirely different. Having three solid hours of flight time hadn't done any of them very good, but their immediate need revolved around stopping Clint's bleeding.

However, Barton had other plans. While their attention had been focused on the stalking faralir, Clint took his own initiative and bolted on them.

Steve stared at the empty place in the grass where Clint had once been. "Well, that was unexpected."

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Next time: Hiding in the Brush


	7. Hiding in the Brush

_Add a spice of elf to your life_

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**Chapter 6 -Hiding in the Brush-**

He made up his mind the minute he figured out the portal had brought him to Alfheimr soil. Clint was not going back to that planet, he sometimes called home, and the friends who didn't come when he called. He would turn into that hermit Natasha dreamed about when they came to this realm together, and hide out in the forest for the rest of his life, however short that may be.

Using the lining of his undercoat, he shredded strips of cloth in order to tie his arm against his chest. Keeping it immobilized was the only thing he could do to encourage the wound to stop bleeding, let alone stop his shoulder from jarring with each step. He'd been very lucky lately. In the last seven months of undercover investigative work, he had been shot in the side, stabbed in the back, and, now, took an arrow through the shoulder. None of those three would prove lethal. Years of experience with putting arrows into people told him the attacker missed his major arteries. It didn't make the wound hurt any less, or his shoulder any less broken, but taking the possibility of bleeding to death off the table became the only bonus he could turn to; that, and his considerable tracking skills.

He had a head start, but how long it would take Steve and Tony to realize he had slipped by them, Clint didn't venture to guess. He had to keep moving, cover his tracks, and stop the bleeding.

The next time he saw the Captain of the Guard, he had to thank Veurr for the detailed tour the Asgardian gave him of the natural Alfheimr fauna. Digging up some of that knowledge, he found which plants he might safely pack against his skin to sop up the leaking injury. The last thing he needed was a slap of poisoned sprik grass, or elk hair moss, against him to turn his skin purple and blistering.

He stumbled across a cobblestone trail nearly two meters across. The stones showed recent travel, most of the forest's scrub and moss failed to spring up between the brick cracks. Clint had to reach back in his travels to remember just where in the realm of Alfheimr he could be.

_Elven Way,_ he thought. The road split through the entire mainland into its six corners. The Palace Realm, or Lakeheed, resided in the north, bordered on the western edge by the Blanklands and Skydale to the east. Directly below Lakeheed, towered the Blueskin Mountains; so named for their massive thresholds of ice that reflected the very sky in their peaks. Beneath the Blueskins, lay Earthenden. The south eastern most corner of Alfheimr's mainland contained Queen Fehreh's clan, known as Woodrenkell. The six clans had found peace and harmony in their own existence, centuries before its alliance with Asgard.

Beyond the mainland lay three outer islands. The Wild South consisted of all things southerly in Alfheimr, and was ruled by the thieves and outlaws that the civilized North banished long before. To the east lay the fishing islands, Inner Glencove and the small barrier islands that formed Outer Glencove. Both of the fishing islands controlled all transport by sea throughout the Alfheimr realm.

Discovering the Elven Way, Clint had to decide next which direction he needed to go to find Lakeheed. Before, Odin literally dropped them within spitting distance of the capitol city where a troop of bird-riding elven warriors picked them up. Given that no emissaries of the palace had yet appeared, Clint assumed he was far enough away that, either Rinon didn't notice the opening of the Bifrost, or whatever warriors were sent to pick them up hadn't a chance to reach them. The area around him didn't appear familiar. The canopy itself felt thicker, more ancient than that of Lakeheed. Given the unfriendly elves on their tail, he didn't want to assume he'd been thrown into the Wild South, but that very real possibility remained.

Clint slowed his determined steps, and cut a diagonal path across the cobblestones. He found the buttress of an ancient uprooted tree, and eased himself down against the bark. Night approached like a thick blanket. Somewhere in the dark sky, he could hear the distant rolls of thunder. A few trickles of rain penetrated the thick vined sky above him.

Deep exhaustion hit him like a fist. Barton sank against the roots, and winced as the wood pressed into his broken shoulder. He probed the front of the injury with his fingers, and squinted at the fluid in the dark. He was bleeding a lot less now. Steve's direct pressure did him some good initially.

In retrospect, leaving the two Avengers in the middle of a foreign jungle with an army of angry natives on their heels, wasn't the best idea. If Clint encountered another faralir, or even a hostile of his own, he couldn't hope to defend himself. With a shattered shoulder, his bow was useless. He had few arrows to his name. He took the time to search through his pockets for any other supplies that may have taken the journey with him. Clint found one back up clip of expanding arrows, and the other half of the protein bar Tony forced him to chew on.

The fact that all Tony could think about was shoving food into him made Clint self-conscious about his own body condition. He didn't feel so thin. He never kept much track of what his physique was like, unless his arms began hurting when pulling arrows, or Pepper baked too often.

Pepper.

Clint closed his eyes, and rested the back of his head against a clump of moss. He owed her an apology after screaming at her a few months back. She had wanted the best for him, wanted to bring him home to smooth things over from his fight with Stark. She didn't know that everything had been staged. He had said some hurtful things to her in the object of keeping her safe. If plans worked out the way he currently wanted it to, that opportunity would never come.

Running from his problems was one of Barton's specialties. He'd been married once. Her name was Bobbi Morse, and she was a SHIELD agent like him. He was crazy about her, and eventually dragged the girl to Vegas and made an honest woman out of her. Then, the unexpected happened, and a few heavy muscled men, Clint thought he could take on by himself, proved otherwise. They put Bobbi in a hospital bed, and threatened to saw her in half if Clint didn't step back. So he did. He ran like he always did when times got tough. Bobbi left him, officially, eight months later, never knowing the truth behind his shut down of emotion.

Now, times were tough again. His own blood had pulled the trigger that destroyed SHIELD, the very meaning of his thus far misguided life. Barney smothered the mountain in Arrow's blood, and threatened to take Natasha from him too. Clint had been in this position before. Running had worked then.

Natasha . . . What had Steve said? She was recovering? Had something happened to her? Clint didn't realize at the time how much that small statement may affect him. He wondered if one of Barney's agents had already gotten to her. Were they going to continue to dog her now that Clint was off world? Suddenly it reminded him of Bobbi all over again and that made his temples pulse with a coming head ache.

The Avengers didn't need him, the whole planet already saw him as a two-bit has-been with an alcohol problem, and even Tony himself had believed Clint had drugs in his back pack. That mistrust dug the knife a little deeper. Natasha was probably fine. She'd apparently survived just well without him until now. No doubt she would go the way of Bobbi Morse, relying on her Red Room granted heart of cold steel to overcome her hate for him.

The gentle rolling thunder approached. A bolt of lightning crashed overhead, and Clint decided he should start moving again. Stark had the advantage on him when it came to tracking around in the dark. If he didn't keep a few steps ahead, Steve and he were sure to catch up. Barton wrote them off already. In that moment, lying against the fallen stump, he made a promise to forget everything he ever loved about Earth. He was going to disappear into these woods, with his hate, anger, and grief, and never come out again.

He grabbed a knot of bark in his good hand and pulled himself to his feet. The world spun dazedly before him. He slowed, waiting for the haze to pass. The blood loss wasn't substantial enough to make him light headed so maybe the stress was getting to him. Losing Arrow, portal jumping, the fight on Alfheimr and the mountain . . . that must be it. Stress.

Waiting for his body to steady, he pushed off and took his first few steps into the wood parallel to the Elven Way. He estimated the northernmost direction given the little support from the growing moss on the old trunks. It wasn't quite right, but he expected a northern fork to come at some point with the lane marker indicating the way to Lakeheed. He didn't dare travel on the road proper. Anyone in spitting distance used the highway, for good or evil intent.

"Hawkeye!"

Clint spun a little as he heard his name shouted in the distance. The others picked up his trail faster than he'd anticipated. He may have to bed down for an hour or two, wait for them to pass, and continue on alone after they'd gone. Most likely, they'd assume he took the path to cover his steps.

Distant spotlights illuminated the Elven Way. Tony used the hidden panels on his shoulders as lighting, along with his chest reactor. They weren't too far behind him. Clint had no choice but to take shelter.

Without an injured shoulder, his first intent would have been to climb the nearest tree, hide out in the rafters of bark and vine, then wait for the two. With a shattered shoulder and useless arm, such nonsense couldn't even be entertained. Instead he opted for low ground. Shrouding his human form as much as possible, he crawled into the vine system of a nearby trunk. He lay parallel with the ground, using detritus to scrape over his lower half, and soft earth to disguise the pallor of his face. One leg kicked up into the vines themselves, the other he buried into the roots. His good arm was stretched out to the side, with his face and eyes toward the Elven Way. Like the trained assassin he was, Clint became one with the landscape and completely disappeared into it.

:(:):(:):

"Are you sure you can't just punch through this? It would help if we had some idea of which way the palace stood." Steve said.

Tony pointed a finger at him. "I tried, and you're not helping."

"I'm not the one made out of heat sensors, Bill Gates."

"Yeah, and you're just the guy time should have left forgotten."

"I've heard that one already, so keep trying." Steve paused in the cobblestone roadway and considered the surroundings. He couldn't believe Clint had taken off on them. His jaw still throbbed from where the archer threw his fist against the captain's face. He'd seen Clint that angry a few times in the past, though not in the last year at the least.

"What do you think he meant?" Steve asked.

"About us being late?"

Steve nodded.

"I don't think he was talking about our monthly cycle."

Steve grimaced. "Seriously?"

"I don't get it. I want to get him home, back where he belongs. SHIELD's gone to crap, and we need to stick together. Even Thor's staying at the Tower full time and you're moving back in."

Steve cracked a small grin. "Hey, I'm not getting rid of my lease either though."

"Yeah, well. Planet needs us, and we need Clint." Tony slowed. He turned in place and scanned the area immediately around them. "Hang on a sec, I think I've got something inbound."

"Friendly?"

The metal face turned to him. "Seriously? What here hasn't tried to eat us or kill us yet?"

"Point made."

Steve walked up to Stark's shoulder, and stood with his shield ready. They still had to find Clint, but for now, they needed to focus on the object at hand. In the distance, they could hear the light footsteps of some creature walking in their direction. The path curved nearly forty meters away in a sharp bend that led far out of sight. After a time, the glistening white features of a being approached. Its head was lowered, massive glowing antlers poised for the attack.

Tony sent a buzz of energy toward his gauntlets.

:(:):(:):

The thousand shades of green and brown faded darker under the onslaught of the fierce rain storm. Leaves, as large as men, cupped their edges up to catch the life-giving fluid as the sky released its mighty deluge. It seemed all of Alfheimr cried out against the injustice happening on its own soil. Surely, King Rinon could think of no better backdrop for the interrogation soon to come.

The leader of Alfehimr had a smaller stature compared to most Light Elves. At a little beneath six feet in height, he took his strength, not from his size, but the bearing of his being and the depth of his heart. His hair resembled fresh spun wool, and extended down his back in three taught braids. Gold silk, gilded leaves, and tokens of battles fought were weaved into the plates with expert care. He did not often leave the walls of Lakehead with his swords at his hips or his bow, yet this occasion called for his most precise care.

An outrider in his hunting party came into the king's camp two moon cycles before. He warned that a strange group of elves from the Wild South had broken the blockade that had been created nearly a century before by the ships of Inner Glencove. Rinon broke camp from his traditional hunt in Skydale that same day, and took the journey south for the strait. Legions of Southlings already passed through the blockade, despite the added effort of the Glencove elves to repel them. It was all Rinon could do to lend his own aid to the efforts.

The king's men created a command post on the sea coast to overlook the deportation of the Southlings. The Lakeheed clan had been residing in Earthenden since the onset of the unrest, and thus far had great success in sending the worst offenders back to banishment. Innocents caught in the crossfire of the peculiar unrest were given safe haven throughout the mainland. The work was quite tedious.

When it seemed the disturbances had died down, and the majority of Alfheimr's criminals returned, the massive explosion of light split the sky. During his reign, Rinon had seen many bands of light heralding a visitor from Asgard. Though, following the death of Queen Frigga, such visits had relatively stopped. Tensions had risen since the Dark Elves struck the very heart of Asgard's city. The frayed diplomacy with the Asgardians, coupled with the problems of the Southlings, created a pure powder keg which must be controlled. Frankly, it was the last thing Rinon needed.

The Bifrost bridge appeared in the midst of Woodrenkell, and a considerable distance from the beaches of Earthenden. This alone caused reason to worry. Why had Odin not sent his emissaries directly? Why Woodrenkell, and not Lakeheed or Earthenden? Little the Asgard King did, made sense as of late. It was as if his wits left the moment his wife's soul was released to the stars. Heimdall had been removed from his post and cast in irons for aiding Thor. The Warriors Three and Sif spent more time away from the capital then in it.

Even the other realms began to feel the weight of Asgard's loss in prestige. A group of Kree extremists attempted an uprising that previously would have been beat back by Asgardian hands. One of the infinity stones had been discovered and simultaneously lost and one of the more powerful realms had left the very salvation of their society in the hands of an unreliable group of convicts and thieves. It seemed that every realm had gone positively mad and Rinon's own had not been sparred the upheaval.

What, with all this chaos erupting around them, could Asgard possibly want with him? To discover the purpose of the visit, he sent his faralir riders into the wood to greet Odin's men, never expecting the report that would soon return back.

* * *

Midterms are coming up. BLEH! Finished my third neuter already! whoopwhoop. Doing my first ovariohysterectomy in 3 weeks.

Next time: How to Murder a King


	8. How to Murder a King

_LOOOONNNNG Chapter today, cause i'm feeling generous:)_

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**Chapter 7 -How to Murder a King-**

Night came with the slow lull of the sun setting on the beach's coast. The distant peaks of the Blankland's mass dunes reflected the dying golden light. Colors like a painter's brush streaked across the sky, crisscrossing with the indigo of the stars' bed. The first group of outriders galloped back into camp with their faralirs at an incredible pace. Sitting astride with hunters were more of the tattooed Southlings that so much time had been spent to round up.

"_Holan Eyani'_." _Hello, troublesomes_, the palace guardian greeted the Southling captives. Her name was Arahaelel, and she'd handled the affairs of the royals for as long as she'd been mature. To approach the king, one must first go through her.

With a wave of her hand Arahaelel swept the group toward the holding camps. "You shall be fed and warmed for the night. In the morning, you shall be sorted. Those seeking asylum must plea then. _Ty'gatho melee_."

The Southlings were herded to the holding tents with the careful prompting of the mainland Elves. Only one remained behind in the hands of two hunters. They approached together, with the Southling set between them walking on his own. Elves were sensible creatures. The need to restrain one another, or hold each other in prisons, hadn't been seen since long before civil society began with the expulsion of the Dark Elves from Alfheimr.

Arahaelel offered a smile to the hunters. The first of them was Relyano Greattree. He'd been a hunter and faralir rider alongside King Rinon for two hundred years. His reliability as a confidant had been established long before the trouble with the border jumpers began. Beside him stood Haladarrel Bywater, an inhabitant of Outer Glencove's who lent his assistance in controlling the civil unrest.

The guard inclined her head slightly to both out of respect. "Le suilon." _I greet you._

"Fel leselli." _Good health to you, _Relyano replied. "We have a difficulty that has arisen. This elf has identified himself as a Southling without our asking and surrendered himself to us, yet will not explain what his crimes may be. He neither seeks asylum nor obeys the customs of normal conversation and proclaims he shall speak to our king alone."

Arahaelel's eyes fell on the Southling between them. "What is the nature of such surrender?"

"I will speak to the one who disowns his people! The one who shall be deposed with Odin's hand!" the Southling seethed. He was taller than the hunters flanking him, with flat, lengthy ears that swept up and back on either side of his head. In a shocking change, his hair had been cropped terribly short and held into peaks by the sap of trees. Intricate knots of black and green ink marred his face from the base of one ear, crawled across the bridge of his nose, and ended at the next ear. He was a fearsome, wild, sight to behold.

Arahaelel's eyebrow arched at him. "A cunning tongue you hide in that mouth."

The Southling bared his teeth.

She returned her gaze to Haladarrel. "Have you not returned with Odin's men?"

"Our report on that is nearly more troublesome to explain than the elf between us."

From the distant fire, King Rinon noticed his guardian speaking to the riders he'd sent toward the Bifrost. He abandoned his position, and approached the group with his queen walking at his side. He did not speak at first. Of the rulers that led Alfheimr, he was the quietest. Rarely did he engage in conversation, and left most of the public speeches to his wife, who excelled at such things. The silence of the leader often inspired such in his subjects. Sensing his presence, Arahaelel moved aside and took a step backward out of reverence. Rinon touched her shoulder in acceptance of her motion.

"What is your grievance, Elf of South?" Fehreh asked, softly.

The Southling hissed through his teeth.

"With such language as that, you will only seek out trouble for yourself. Please explain what it is you – "

Finding a hidden reserve of strength, the Southling left the two hunters and rushed for the king. Rinon reacted swiftly to the advance of the other elf. His hands braced against the Southling's shoulders, but their distraction left him open to an attack none could have imagined. Producing the broken shaft of an arrow, the Southling jammed the object forward into the side of the king.

"Rinon!" Fehreh cried.

Relyano and Haladarrel tore the howling Southling away, throwing him to the ground where Hal held him steady. Relyano slipped a hand beneath his king as Arahaelel held a cloth against Rinon's side. The king took it from her and tended to himself.

"Qa'rehel." _My quarters_, Fehreh instructed.

As one, the group moved. Hal dragged the laughing Southling to his feet and shoved him forward. Already other Light Elves turned their attention to the happenings. Some who may have witnessed it doubted their own eyes. How could such a thing be? To cause physical harm against another elf was heresy, while injuring the king himself reached beyond their thoughts. The last time another elf held the idea of murder or mischief in his heart reached back to the times of the First Banishment, when the Dark Elf forces were expunged from all of Alfheimr.

The thought of receiving the same fate had been met with such disdain in the centuries since, that no elf dared to even entertain the idea. Even those banished from the mainland had been cast out for lesser crimes of theft or other nonsense. To spill a fellow elf's blood constituted the highest form of disregard for life itself, and elves had a great many things to say about life.

Some watched as the five left the outdoors and disappeared into Rinon's living quarters. While an Asgardian's idea of camping out on the front of unrest included a great deal of tents and flags and other gallantries from a paltry day, the Alfheimr way had a grander scale to it. Entire buildings erupted from the soil via the guided hands of Earthenden elves. Roots grew into vines, vines thickened, braided, became water tight, and sealed together in many thick walls. Grass sprang from even the sandiest shore, and wove itself together to become a lush floor. Tables, chairs, beds, linens, all sprang of their own accord under the skillful tutelage of master Earthendens. For Earth elves had the greatest whispering ability to coax new life from the damp ground.

The royal's temporary home was hardly grander than those surrounding it. Though the queen may have preferred a few more flowers, or rooms with expansive entrances and furnishings, it had been agreed between them to dull their living quarters to better match that of the other elven families. The royals lived in the Lakeheed palace, on a bed of luxury only the most skilled Elven Masters could have sculpted. It did them well, however, to abandon such niceties in order to better appreciate the beauty in which they had been granted stewardship over.

Entering the home, Rinon took himself from his compatriot's arms and stood on his own. Haladarrel and Relyano lashed the Southling's hands to his back.

"Rinon?" Fehreh whispered to him. She was shaking. Arahaelel slipped her arm into the queen's for condolence. It was as much for Fehreh as herself.

The king swept his hand toward her and nodded once. He meant it as reassurance, but knew in his heart that nothing could shake the spirit of any elf so much as what they had all born witness too. Indeed, despite the injury he received, Rinon was much more disturbed at what meaning lay behind it. What could have driven an elf so far out of reality to abandon his most solemn oaths? From his knees, with hands bound like a hunted animal, the Southling scowled at the king.

For the first time, Rinon spoke. "Why have you done this?"

"It's a coward's weapon, venom is." The southling hissed.

"You mean to kill me with this?" Rinon asked. He tore the four-sided arrow tip from his flesh and considered it.

"I have killed already. Even now he writhes and dies!" the Southling erupted in laughter.

Shocked to their core, the king's loyalists focused on the smooth features of their leader. Fear rose in the room like a blackened soul. Hearts froze in unison as they listened to the ranting of what could only be a mad elf. There existed no other explanation.

"You aim to kill your own kind?" Rinon asked quietly.

"I aim to do more than kill." The Southling replied. "This dying rule of imprisoning monarchs, this realm of unenlightened fools who banish those with a higher call, _that_ is what I am obliged to correct."

"Correct, how?" Rinon continued, ignoring Fehreh who placed a hand over her lips. None of them had ever heard blasphemy so openly.

"With the bite of an elaren's tooth."

Arahaelel gasped. Relyano abandoned the Southling to Haladarrel's care and rushed forward to his king. For once the monarch's emotionless exterior shattered. He allowed Relyano to guide him into a chair as the arrow tip fell from his grasp and slid to the floor. Rel reached down to pick it up again, but Rinon stopped him with a touch. He would never risk Relyano's life with a venom like elaren.

Outraged by what he had witnessed, Relyano shot to his feet again and stormed toward the Southling. "Murderer! You would kill your king? Kill our lands? Shall you call yourself a Dark Elf and be banished from Alfheimr with all your kin brought up beneath you?!" He grabbed the Southling and hauled him to his feet. "You would banish the name of your very children to the life of a nomad!"

"I have no king! My alliance lays in the hands of Malekith the Accursed. My children will survive as gods in the realm I help create! My kin survives in the wake of my deeds. May Ge'elaphi live forever!" the Southling replied.

Relyano's hands opened, dropping the Southling back to the floor. He couldn't believe the words that entered his ears. Had the entire world gone mad? With terror swelling in his veins, he turned toward Rinon. The hunter was at a complete loss. He knew the law as well as any. All read the ancient texts, which described the punishment for crimes against king, realm, and fellow elves. None had seen those laws enacted, and neither had any of them seen a reason for it. Before them, was an elf . . . no, not an elf any longer . . . who embodied the very blackness of Malekith's poisoned soul.

Rinon closed his eyes as a wave of pain flowed through him. He inclined away from the Southling. It took many long minutes of absorbing the Southling's words before the king could come to terms with what must be done. When he opened his eyes again, everyone knew at once.

"Arahaelel, take my queen away."

Fehreh strode to him. She pressed her knees against the woven floor and took his neck in her arms. Hot tears rolled from the corners of her eyes as she sat embracing him.

"I will find a healer and mix the anti-venom." She whispered into his hair. She pulled away and kissed the tip of his stout, pointed ear. Arahaelel lent her hand, assisting Fehreh to rise, and together they left the home.

Haladarrel exchanged a glance with Reylano. Both felt their knees weaken at the thought of what they must now bear witness to. Both dug deep within themselves to steel their resolve to the task at hand, whatever their king may decide.

Rinon's attention remained on the door as his wife and guardian disappeared. If there was one decision he could make on his own, it was to remove them from what he needed to do. Being a king had come with many responsibilities he had not anticipated. Diplomacy with eight other realms, defense against attacks from lawless worlds, the shaking alliance with Odin and Asgard, but there was one area he never saw a flaw in: his home. Alfheimr remained always a beacon of an elevated society, a perfect paradise with joyful inhabitants that any traveler could not help but be enthralled by. His own image of that perfection was crushed. Sullenly, he turned his attention back to the Southling and his tone grew stern.

"Do you understand these words you so freely speak?"

"Every letter of them, shelikran me-akeri." _Motherless belly-crawler._

The insult did not faze the king. "Do you understand that, with these actions, what it is you command of me? What the punishment for these crimes are?"

Small white teeth peeked from behind the snarling lips. "Set your sword against me! Spill the blood of your own kind! There will be no saving this rotted, fettered world now that the archer dies!"

Rinon leaned forward. "Archer? What archer?"

"Midgard's man, Odin's elect. Taken from his home, and murdered by my arrow on Alfheimr soil!" the Southling cried out in excitement and mania. He fell into hysterics, laughing uncontrollably as the blood drained from Rinon's face. The king abandoned the throne and slowly approached. His hand wavered over the hilt of his sword.

"You speak of Barton? Clint of Barton, the wielder of Sleiphner'sbow?"

The Southling's head bobbed as he agreed. "Stolen from Midgard. Taken through the Bifrost to die on Alfheimr land! Dead, dead already with the shot I put into him!"

"Elaren." Reylano whispered. Haladarrel threw out a hand to steady him, but felt less than up to the task. His belly churned as the atrocities poured out. He could hardly think, speak, or dare to take breath.

Rinon's entire being changed. Once the humble, silent king, he now transformed into something so much more. His height swelled, some would say he grew a full head taller, under the weight of the news the Southling shared. If his resolve was shaken before, the concern over his decision no longer pained him. His own wound forgotten, he bore down on the captured Southling with all regality of his position as the realm's one true king.

"This following which aligns you with Dark Elves, and destroying the paradise of brothers and sisters, has unmade you forever in the eyes of our history. Destroying this Migardian would bring the wrath of Asgard upon us, and it is you whom the realm shall lay blame against. You have damaged your king, thrown all the lives of Alfehimr at risk, and take joy in our fate. You force me into this with your idiocy and actions!"

Rinon drew his blade. It shone in the light of the candles and firestones placed in the corners of the hovel. The sword, forged in the Blueskin Mountain kilns and infused with the strength of silver, iron, and gold held a design unlike any other. Like flames fighting for a position amongst each other, the three metals flowed in arcs and swirls from the hilt to tip. The gold itself illuminated at the touch of its wielder, and an unnatural silence fell in the hovel. The blade bit forward, its pristine polish reflecting the terrified eyes of the Southling as the head fell away from the rest of him. Perhaps he thought the king would result to mercy for his hands to remain clean. No elf entertained the idea of taking life, especially not of another elf.

But the Southling was wrong and his body collapsed onto the woven earth.

Rinon stood quaking as he watched the elf's blood seep out. He knew there was no other choice left to him, yet he tore at himself still with doubt. Reylano caught the king about the chest, and guided him back to the throne with Haladarrel's assistance.

"Felithino qui rehem? Felithino qui rehem?" _What have I done? _He whispered over and over.

Haladarrel took his leader's sword, and used his own tunic to wipe the blood clean.

"We must treat you, kinme." _My king._ Reylano told him. "You will quicken the venom with this moving. Please stay seated."

Haladarrel set the sword on his king's lap, and kneeled beside Reylano. They awaited their orders, ever the dutiful hunters.

Rinon shook his head. "I cannot stay. I must lead the search for the archer. If he still lives, pray that he lives! We cannot allow him to be taken thus. Tensions with Asgard have been high. To see their champion, murdered by Alfheimr hands, would destroy what little kinship remains."

"If you leave, you may die! Our people cannot be left without their king!" Haladarrel warned.

"Listen to our counsel." Reylano begged. "The Bifrost opened not long ago. There remains a chance that we can recover the archer before the venom claims him. Send your outriders after him. Linnor, Faraday, Haladarrel and myself. We will lead them."

Rinon didn't wish to admit the relevance of their words. Even now, as his wound attempted to heal itself, he could feel the sting and burn of the necrotizing venom seep through his veins. Soon, he would begin to bleed, to rot from within, and after suffering the screams and throes of a fevered agony, he would die. He knew the effects of elaren venom, and, thankfully, could take steps to avoid the inevitable fate that awaited others. If he exerted himself, however, he would only do himself more harm.

"We have two nights, at most, to find the archer." Rinon told them. "Send the hunters. Send everyone who can be trusted to track. Have my queen list what is necessary to heal the venom, and see to it all the hunters know. The archer must be returned to Midgard alive. The lives of our generations depend on it."

* * *

:(:):(:):

* * *

They could hear the rain but thus far felt little of it beyond the odd searching drop. Tony and Steve both remained shoulder to shoulder, facing not only the coming thunder storm, but also the massive creature of the wood. They saw the antlers first, great shining ones that reached as high as the canopy. Given the incredible tracking ability of the faralirs the Avengers decided against attempting to hide into the woods. The cleared roadway offered a better opportunity to maneuver.

The creature stepped out. The cobblestone roadway click-click-clicked beneath its hoof steps. Already this seemed unlike the faralir they already had a chance to meet and the Avengers paused. More curious than concerned, the Avengers watched as roadway ahead of them blocked with the massive form of a white buck. Ten meters in height from hoof to antler tip, the buck stopped in mid stride when it caught sight of the men. The black nose tipped downward and to the left which allowed a better look at the men in the roadway. The buck inhaled deeply and stamped on front foot as if to scare them off. The large ears telescoped to either side as it decided what to do.

"Looks like its deer season." Steve said.

"I think it's a buck." Tony said.

"I'm not checking up its skirt, so whatever you say."

"Maybe we should back off and just let it go by."

"Clint's still got a lead on us, who knows how far he got."

Tony slowly headed to the right of the road, backing up first. He smacked Steve's arm along the way and the Captain relented to follow. The buck carefully watched them move. Its head adjusted to watch them with both eyes and ears following. When the Captain and Iron Man cleared the path, the buck waited a few moments before cautiously moving forward.

"Who would have thought we'd hit a deer road block." Steve whispered.

The white stag reached their position and paused again, staring into the trees at them.

Tony threw a hand up. "Come on, Bambi, shove it along. We've got places to be."

The deer blinked its fist-sized black eyes at them before taking another step toward the end of the path.

Suddenly the wool white fur erupted in red. The deer screamed unlike any animal the Avengers had ever heard as out of nowhere the faralir from before launched from the woods behind Steve and Tony's back. The great cat's nails dug into the rump of the deer and dragged it down against the Elven Way. The stag's antlers hit the cobblestones with a colossal slam as its points tangled with low hanging branches. Points sheared off and went flying through the air like missiles. The faralir released the deer's rump and latched onto the buck's trachea. With a single snap of its jaws, the faralir broke the neck of its prey.

Frozen in open-mouthed shock, Steve and Tony watched the entire takedown. At first the faralir paid their presence no mind but the minute its prey lay dead in its jaws, that disinterest wore thin. With something to defend, the massive cat opened its dripping fangs and released a gut crunching roar.

"Time to go!" Tony exclaimed, kicking on his repulsers. Steve hooked his shield over his arm and ran after him. Hopefully if they ran fast enough for long enough, the faralir would give up and return to its meal. However, after only short charge in their direction, the faralir broke off for a copse of trees on the right of the road way. The massive jaws opened as the wild cat screamed. It's claws ripped away at the root system like a house cat could tear paper. The canines snapped down in its attempt to crush whatever hid within.

Steve and Tony slowed up as they watched it all happen.

"Hey, you don't think…?" Steve asked.

"Yeah, I do think." Tony replied. He lifted one hand, his repulser warming up for a shot to the back.

"Don't kill it!" Steve said.

"I'm not going to kill it! Clint, are you in there?" Tony called over the snarling of the faralir.

As if in response, an arrow flew through the roots system and lodged beneath the animal's eye. The faralir reared back. It scrubbed across its face with its front paws to dislodge it. With the cat pushed back, Clint appeared from his hiding place and took off in the direction of his friends along the Elven Way. He held the Asgardian bow in his right hand and the left pressed against the bleeding wound in his shoulder.

"Oh, look who decided to rejoin the party!" Steve exclaimed, throwing up his arms.

The faralir dropped back to all four paws. Drool connecting its fangs together as the creature crouched for a pounce. The Avengers considered holding their ground, but with Clint's bleeding shoulder acting as a beacon to every predator who could smell blood, their best decision was to keep moving. Clint already came up with that plan on his own. He never stopped beside Stark and Steve, but instead continued to hightail it down the Elven Way. The others were left to rush off in his wake and attempt to catch up. After a little convincing from Stark's repulsor blasts, the faralir thought better about going for the running meal and returned to its already downed kill.

Tony turned back to the road and flew to catch up with Steve and Clint. Before he even reached them, the shouting match was in full swing. Steve was talking, Clint was ignoring, and Tony ended up in the center of it all. Even as he walked, Clint's steps became disjointed. He was sweating, panting, and it was obvious his shoulder was only getting worse.

"Slow down! Will you just stop for one second and let me see that? Clint, come on, it's not like we're going to just let you walk away and never come after you, so stop for a minute and—"

"And what?!" Barton growled back. Ever since leaving the faralir, he had marched full tilt down the cobblestones paved along the ancient Elven highway. Despite his friend's attempts to stop him, he refused to obey. He knew he should listen. He was barely able to drawl his bow to shoot the one arrow that spared him from being cat chow. Already the shoulder was broken and little more than a pure shot of adrenaline made him able to even fire the one shot he had. He felt a considerable tear in whatever ligaments remained and a strange heat radiated from the place where the shaft impaled him. He should stop. He had to stop. But he refused to.

"And talk to us, Clint. You're gone for seven months and finally we get the team back together and you're acting like we're your worst enemy." Steve never even broke a sweat while keeping in line with the archer.

Clint stopped walking and turned on the captain. He grabbed his collar in the fist of his good arm and shoved the nearly immovable Steve Rogers back.

"You want to hit me again? Cause that seemed to work really well the first time." Steve said.

"Yeah I want to hit you. I want to take a two-by-four and hit you hard enough to send you back fifty years and out of my life." Clint spat at him. "And after that I want to go home and put thirty-three bullets in my brother's head and drop him in a shallow grave. So let's just get to Lakeheed and out of here."

"Fine! You know what, we tried to pull you out of the field, or help or something. So if you're holding a grudge against us for letting you leave, then that's your problem." Tony shouted, letting his frustration come to a head.

"I hate you." Clint spat at him. His steps began to slow. He held his shoulder a little tighter against his chest. Anger helped fuel his adrenaline which kept the pain in check but the small high he had from the faralir attack shook off. His chest felt heavy. He coughed, his shoulder jarred, and he inhaled sharply with a grunt of agony. The minute he coughed once, he coughed again. His body racked in a fit that left him gasping and breathless.

Their disagreement forgotten, Steve and Tony converged on him. There was little they could do besides keep him on his feet and hang his head when he began to bring up pure blood. After a time his spasm finally ended. He pulled in short shallow breaths to try and gain his bearings. The two Avengers moved over to the side of the Elven Way and set him down.

"What was that? Are you all right? Catch your breath and start talking to us, ok?" Steve said. He eased Clint's arm out of the sling to have a better look at the wound. This time, the archer didn't resist him. Was it possible the arrow pierced his lung? The wound seemed higher than that, but with the shock of the blood flowing out of his chest Steve had to make sure.

"I don't know. I feel," Clint tilted his head back, trying to catch his breath. He wiped his face with the back of his good hand and stared at the red-tinged saliva. "I feel weird. Like, my chest is tight."

Steve opened the covering over the wound and nearly gasped at what he found. The first thing that hit him was the smell. It resembled an animal rotting on the side of a road. He'd been in trenches before with men or women caught by enemy fire and unable to leave for medical care. The gangrene set in like a devil, destroying everything in its path. The second thing that marveled him was the sight. Everything adjacent to the initial hole seemed to be melting away. His skin and muscle putrefied through one end and out the other, leaving only stringy connections that were once tendons.

"Clint, we need to get you help. I don't want to scare you, but I think there's a very real possibility you've been poisoned." Steve said. His hands hovered over the wound, not wanting to touch it without having a better idea of what they were dealing with.

"Well, hell, why not?" Clint gasped.

"Tony, you have the med scanners in that tin can of yours?"

Stark lifted his arm and held out the small probe that lifted from the metal plating. A bright blue light jutted into the air between them and, starting at the crown of Barton's head, it proceeded downward in a fan. It stopped at Clint's boots and the probe retracted while JARVIS's independent memory bank scanned the results. The news was not good.

"You ever see a dog eat rat poison?" Tony asked, squatting down.

Steve paled.

"You're saying someone shot me with rat poison? Great. You know, I think I needed just one more thing to go wrong in my life."

"I'm saying you've blood in your lungs and it's getting worse."

"I could've told you that."

"This stuff's moving around in your system. You fighting us is making it worse."

"I'm not just going to stay here and die either."

"You aren't going to die at all." Steve told him. He looked at Tony. "Go scout ahead, see if you can find any way out of here. Fire off a rocket or something Iron Man-y."

"I'll look for a thinner tree and throw everything I've got at it." Before Stark had a chance to move, the familiar sound of the horn blast split the air. He looked over his shoulder and scanned the immediate area for heat signatures. What he found made his heart drop.

"Cap, we've got at least forty hostiles in-bound."

"How far out?" Steve asked. He grabbed Clint under his good side and helped to haul him up. The archer didn't pull away from him, but then again he couldn't.

"Almost on top of us." Tony's right gauntlet expanded out as his six stacked rockets prepared for use.

"Cover us as long as you can, then catch up. Don't get yourself buried." Steve instructed.

"Thanks for the tip, lab rat. Get going before this goes bad. Clint?"

Barton looked up.

"Be careful." Stark looked forward again. The heat signatures on his display screen lit up like a world of Christmas lights. He grossly underestimated the number of hostiles inbound. Soon they would be swamped by the local natives and it was very likely every one of them carried the same toxin that was slowly rotting Clint's bow arm right off his body. Tony had no intention of running, hiding, and getting dogged at every step. Steve wouldn't make good enough time with Clint injured. He needed a long distraction. Tony was going to make himself a spectacle.

* * *

I know that was a pretty long one, but hope you enjoyed!

Our poor boy. I do love to torture him.

Next time: Amputation


	9. Amputation

_What have you been thinking these last few days since you read the chapter title? Has it been horrible to wait?_

* * *

**Chapter 8 -Amputation**

Out of all the elves on Alfheimr, Haladarrel Bywater never expected to be chosen as a kingsman. He was outrider, or scout, of Outer Glencove for the majority of his adult life he entertained the ideas of one day being inducted into the king's service. Unfortunately a grand amount of his time consisted of patrolling the shores of Earthenden or Woodrenkell, servicing the hunts of lesser royals, or in general travel. He never had what one would deem a home life and had yet to take himself a wife from any clan (a point of which his mother often made a remark of). Outriders tended to have little personal time themselves as such great expanses of land existed between one clan and the next. His own area of expertise incorporated hundreds of kilometers of beach, wood, plains, and sea. He did not have a faralir of his own as none had yet to choose him, and riding the back of any great owls or hawks never agreed with his stomach. So he often traveled on foot or by horse back when one such beast made itself available. Today he decided to go on foot.

Six teams of outriders were commissioned by the king to distribute across the entire mainland of Alfheimr. The undertaking was as massive as any he had ever seen in his life. To be chosen to ride among them was an honor that Haladarrel would never refuse. His experiences made him more familiar with the parts of Woodrenkell that most elves refused to walk along, so it came as no surprised when the leader of his faction, Reylano, instructed Haladarrel to go north east.

They rode in a single group northerly from the king's encampment along the beaches of Earthenden into that great forest until the roads split into their myriad of lanes at the first bifurcation. There Reylano made his request for Haladarrel to continue alone into the darkness of the wood. Again, the outrider did not faint at the request. To those who knew nothing of its dangers, the wood could be a death trap of its own right. The possibility of him discovering the archer, wounded, dying, and alone was unlikely at best. Finding him in this part of the wood, where even the most dastardly of these Southlings refused to tread, would be only another layer of ridiculous folly. But they had to at least be sure Clint of Barton was not there and the only way to accomplish such a thing was on foot.

Haladarrel bid ado to the other members of the riding party, wishing them the greatest of success as he, alone, took his first steps into that oppressive melancholy of the sunless forest path. He stayed on the Elven Way, diverting only when he heard the footfalls of the great beasts appeared ahead. He anticipated that if Barton had been transported to the forest at all, his first inclination would be finding the ancient path through the wood. He had been to Alfhiemr on one occasion previously and during a few festivals and the death of Queen Frigga he'd come into contact with many higher elves. Reportedly he knew some of the local tongue but Hal had never met Midgard's champion himself so to that he could not speculate.

He knew some details about the human he'd been sent to track though most information came from stories he'd been told by other outriders. The archer tended to be shorter than one would assume, even for a Midgardian. He had terribly short hair the color of blood moon leaves, eyes like glaciers, and the build of any excellent marksman. To prove his identity one must only ask to see the product of Odin's generosity, the Sleiphner bow. Designed by dwarves and forged in the fires from the Blueskin mountain coals, the bow was a symbol of Asgardian craftsmanship and beauty. Haladarrel had never seen a weapon of similar metal or fortitude and likely never would. He convinced himself that in this great wood of Alfheimr he must be in the one place that the Midgardian must not be.

To find him would come with the greatest responsibility, one that he felt ready to shoulder, but no doubt held the same opinion as many of the other outriders. He did not want to be the one to uncover the corpse of Barton. If the Southling menace could be believed, then the only possible way to find the Midgardian was dead. Elaren could be a terrible death, one that luckily their king would be spared. But for this man to go, untreated, into the wilderness alone? Haladarrel shook his head at the prospect. No, no this would not do at all.

He consoled himself in the fact that he would most likely never see the archer. Until, that is, he found the ancient runes carved into the earth like the Asgardian calling card it heralded from.

Haladarrel had just exited the thicker parts of the overgrown Elven Way. He peeled off the cobblestone path and passed through a faralir run of brambles and treaded down grass and reeds. When he arrived at the field just through the path, he noticed at once the blown back earth. His heart thudded in his chest as he broke forward. He slung his bow over one shoulder and hit his knees in the earth as he traced one hand over the runes. There could be no doubt in his mind. Whoever had come through the Bifrost arrived at this precise location.

"Nai!" he exclaimed to no one but the air. The archer may have gone a great distance already. Did he travel on foot? Had he been attacked at all? To answer his questions, Haladarrel checked the tracks in the ground.

Blood. He touched a had to it from the cover of his gloves. He brought the clot to his nose and inhaled briefly. Hours old. Barton hadn't even made it out of the runes of the Bifrost before he'd been pierced with the arrow. The Southlings knew he would come. They lay in wait for him. But how could they possibly have known such things unless and Asgardian told it to them?

Loki? Was it possible? But that fated brother of Thor had been killed by the Dark Elves not long before. Who else would conspire such atrocities on Alfheimr? Haladarrel thought he'd stared evil in the face when he met the Southling who attempted to kill his king, yet here he uncovered a much darker plot. His very bones shook.

More footsteps existed beside the archer's. At least two others had come through the Bifrost with him. They struggled briefly, then he saw a scorch in the earth as all steps disappeared entirely. Haladarrel backed up and followed the line again to be sure he'd read the tracks appropriately. He raised his head and scanned the trees around him. Broken limbs, signs of smoldered wood, a path. Barton must have made an escape, somehow, from the death field. Getting to his feet Haladarrel rushed into the descended dark in search of the archer before the bite of venom stole him from this worldly plane.

:(:):(:):

The first wave came down on him with a Spartan force. They approached, flying through the trees from above and below. Some were on the backs of ferocious faralirs others swung from limb to limb like primeval monkeys in a rainforest. Before they even reached him, Tony's position was covered in flying spears. Arrows lined his every move, pierced against his armor, but thankfully the plates held strong and true and did not suffer a full breach. He didn't wait for them to get too close before he opened fire.

Missiles lit up the night sky. Faralirs flew end over end through the dirt and slammed their massive bodies into the tree trunks. One's antler broke free and sailed like a projectile through the air, piercing the unfortunate elves too close to the animal. Tony fired a second round, alternating between his heavier artillery and repulse blasts. A faralir broke the line to his left and came crashing through the trees on top of him. Tony hit the roadway on his jaws snapped in his face, threatening to remove his head from his shoulders.

_"Sir, power is depleting beneath this weight. I estimate we will be crushed in—"_

"Not now, JARVIS!" Stark shouted. He let the arc reactor in the center of his chest power up, exploded out, and in a single deafening blast the faralir went screaming onto its side. The elven rider on its back became trapped beneath the colossal weight. Tony dug himself out again as JARVIS rescanned the incoming heat signatures. Despite his best attempts, the waves of fighters kept coming. Hundreds flooded along the pathway, through the trees, and rode in on the faralir backs. As much as he wanted to fight them all off on his own, Tony knew that soon they would realize he was alone. They would get around him and that left Steve to defend Clint alone.

Tony cursed to himself. This situation was impossible. Dogged at every step, how long would it take them to get to safety? Was this entire planet suddenly after them? And beneath all that, how in the world could they find their ways home? He hated admitting it to himself, but Steve was right. They needed to get away. In this case, retreat wasn't the best option, it was their only option.

He laid down a final bed of cover fire, taking out all the targets he could get a solid lock on, and turned tail in midair. He blasted down the path with repulsers on full tilt. They had to get away, find help, and bed down. Right now this fight was about life and death.

"STARK!"

He heard the captain's scream before he rounded the final corner. He never let up speed, instead opting to blast straight ahead until he collided full-on into the faralir rider who'd gotten passed him. Steve clambered to his feet from beneath the fur and jaws of the beast. He rushed to the path, grabbed his shield from the hide of another beast, and turned poised for attack.

"Where's Clint?" Tony demanded from him. He punched a gauntleted fist through the side of the creature's face and avoided the swipe of four flesh-tearing claws.

"He's right here, I have him!" Steve announced. He threw his shield again, rebounding it off one tree, into the chest of an elven warrior, and back into his hands. "How many are still out there?"

"Too many!" Tony's hands came together and the beast fell under the power of two repulser blasts. His back clanged under the impact of another arrow shaft between his shoulders. Still the armor held, though barely.

"Stark, get us out of here!"

"Yeah, you think!?"

Tony threw his knee into the gut of the faralir rider and threw him from his mount. He blasted through the air, grabbed Steve under the armpits and, with Steve bear-hugging Clint's chest against his own they tore off down the path.

Tony's decided to loop back the way they had come and pass through the heart of the attacking elven warriors. It was possible that the pressure they put on the Avengers, keeping them moving harder and harder into the woods, meant to keep them as far from rescue as possible. Were they being herded toward their eventual death? Were they trying to assure that the longer the three stayed out of reach, the more likely it was Clint would die before they found him help? Steve agreed with turning around but he had a restriction. Along the way he wanted to pick himself up a hostage.

They did both and neither proved to be fruitful.

The Elven Way curved on and on into the vast darkness into thicker and thicker brush until the path itself nearly obstructed from view completely. They were forced off and on again and again as the pitch of night closed in. As for Steve's stipulation, they accomplished nothing of it. The first elf they grabbed from the throng slit his own throat in Steve's arm. The second spit in their faces before thrusting himself right into the base of a tree. He cracked his own skull open rather than endure their questions. The third resulted in no better circumstances. So, left with three dead bodies, they had only one mission. To keep going, keep flying, and try desperately to find a way out.

But Clint couldn't keep going. Nearly from the start he suffered another fit of coughing that left him quaking and weak. His dying shoulder tissue screamed as the nerves frayed and tore free. Without the aid of the sling holding his arm to his chest, it was likely his entire arm may pull free. Steve didn't share that observation with anyone beyond the confines of his own mind. He couldn't begin to comprehend how a poison had the ability to hit Clint so fast and eat away at him. They made it a good distance beyond the last of the faralir riders, but that was all Clint's body could stand.

Tony slowed them to a stop. Clint pulled himself away only to collapse some feet from them. His flesh flushed red as his veins pulsed in deep purple. He gasped with each inhalation and hardly managed to exhale. Steve hovered over him as Tony stood by.

"Clint, look at me! You need to breathe!" Steve looked up. "Tony, find us some water and something to carry it in. We can't stay out here like this."

"We can't move him either." Tony pointed out.

"Then find us some cover."

"You find us cover." Tony replied, pulling his helmet off. He bent down at Clint's side. He placed a hand on his friend's chest, but Clint weakly pushed him away.

"We don't have time for—"

Tony shot a glance at the captain. "No, _we_ have time. _He_ doesn't. If you haven't figured it out yet, Cap, we're lost and he's dying! I'm done flying. I'm staying right here." He thrust his helmet into Steve's chest. "You scout around. I'm not going anywhere."

Steve wanted to protest, to say how much he truly believed everything was going to work out. But even his unfailing resolution wavered. The longer time went by, the bleaker their predicament became. Without help, Clint was going to die.

:(:):(:):

Seven months, two weeks, and three days. Steve could count down to the final second since he'd seen Clint last in the flesh. He'd felt him over his shoulder, wondered on more than one occasion whether the archer had hovered over his back on a mission in the field. He never outright saw him, but Steve still thought about him. They'd been friends. They were still, as far as he knew, but the less-than warm reception Clint gave them in Germany made the Captain rethink everything between them.

He couldn't understand where this animosity came from. Thinking back to their last conversation left him even more bewildered. Clint seemed happy then. He joked and made them all laugh, and declared how much he had planned to come back to the Tower. Steve recalled the conversation as if they'd just had it moments ago.

_The team gathered, every last one of them, from Natasha Romanov to Tony Stark in the bathroom at Bruce's Princeton apartment. The part-time Hulk had taken a job, at Clint's request no less, going back to the work that he loved: teaching. The university wanted to hire him on as a full time professor, but Bruce remained loyal to his work with Stark and the tower. He stayed in his new apartment a few days during the week to make commuting tolerable. It was the perfect place to create a wire-free, tracker proof environment. The bathroom was perhaps the only secure place they could contact Barton, beside the elevator in the Tower._

_Bruce initiated the call. When Clint's voice came on the line, Steve breathed the smallest sigh of relief. He didn't like being interrupted so early in the morning, but he only turned his emergency phone on between 4am and 6am every few days. They were lucky he answered at all._

_"There's some strange guy sleeping on my rug, and I got stabbed in the back last night. Besides that, I'm great." Clint told them nonchalantly._

_The entire room exchanged glances. The last time they spoke to him, Clint had been shot. Apparently he'd survived that run-in, but it didn't improve his self-preservation._

_"That's it, you're coming back." Steve didn't give him a request, it was instead a flat out order. They had no idea what Clint had gotten himself into besides the wounds he decided to share with them. He didn't want to risk Clint's mortality one moment longer. He even considered having Tony run a tracer on the disposable phone. Clint was coming out of the field if Steve had to extract the man himself._

_"Thanks for the sentiment, but I'm not. I had a major break last night."_

_"Why didn't you just call us?" Tony butt in. The affianced-former-playboy had taken to sitting on Bruce's sink. He flicked a few screens around on his holographic phone. No doubt he was already doing what Steve considered asking of him._

_"Because I didn't have time between firing rounds from my sniper rifle, and sailing through plate glass windows. Forgive me, guys, but I was a spy way before you were."_

_"I beg to differ." Steve quipped._

_"To that, I have a few choice words, Star Spangled Man with a Plan."_

_Steve's eyes narrowed. He had forgotten about Clint's quick wit. Tony snickered, Bruce laughed, and Natasha very near guffawed. Thor, not understanding what the reference meant, continued to inspect Bruce's shower. Bruce threw a bar of soap at him._

_"That's not fair." Steve said._

_"Of course it's fair. I'm working on two hours of sleep, one of which I spent writhing in pain, and, the second, you are waking me up from. I'm close. I'm getting in touch with Fury in a few days, and I'm going to blow this thing wide open. Now, will you give me a little peace and quiet? You don't call for two weeks; now, all of a sudden, I'm on the top of your to-do list?"_

_Steve looked around to see if someone would fess up to contacting Clint. When everyone returned to him the same bewildered glance, he said, "Clint, the last time we spoke was the day after Thanksgiving. It's almost March."_

_Someone on Clint's end snored, then stopped._

_"Is someone in your room?"_

_Clint yawned. "Yeah, my hostage. I'm trying to smother him. And my calendar broke, so it's not my fault I don't know the date."_

_"Your calendar broke?" Banner asked, incredulously._

_"Yeah, after November it just stopped giving me new days."_

_"Clint, you need a calendar for this year." Steve said._

_"I didn't have the correct one for last year. Stop judging my life."_

_Someone snored again, then abruptly stopped. Apparently Clint did have company and he felt safe discussing even this highly restricted conversation with them. Who could possibly be there? Who could he trust over his own team who he refused to let in?_

_"Look, my prostitute just woke up, I gotta go."_

_"Clint—" Steve tried to stall him. Tony worked a little harder at finding a location._

_"I'm calling Fury tomorrow. I'll be home after that."_

_"Clint!"_

_"Get your storage stuff out of my room, too. I need a shower, and Banner's cooking."_

_"Wait a min – "_

_The phone line went dead, and they were left in the silence of Banner's bathroom without a proper location. The best they could determine was that Clint resided in New York still, but they knew that already. He seemed determined to come back, his tone fit that. If he was letting another person help him, he must be getting near the bottom of his rabbit hole._

_"We've got to trust him." Steve said to everyone. "Clint can do this. We're not going to lose him."_

At the time, Steve thought he was right. He thought he'd made the best decision for everyone until the moment he got back from the ship hostage crisis and all of SHIELD began to shake apart beneath its very foundation. Steve felt swallowed up by it all. Even Natasha became a suspect under his glare, and that he could have never imagined. She was SHIELD through and through, but she was more loyal to individuals than organizations. Clint, Steve, Fury, her heart lay with the ones she loved whether for better or for worse.

When he stood in Bruce's apartment, sharing a beer with Stark and Sam over the close call they all suffered, he never expected the warning on Bruce's computer to go off. Like a fire alarm, it blared across the room loud enough to stop them all in their tracks. Not believing his own ears, Bruce rushed to the console. He brought up the constantly running program he and Tony started since the first day Clint left the Avengers. It was a distress beacon for lack of a better term. Designed by Stark and Bruce to track the vague Asgardian signature Loki's staff emitted, they had recalibrated it for Sleiphner's bow. They all agreed that if an emergency arose and they were needed, Clint would summon up the bow and the team would come immediately. In the months he had been gone, even after being shot and stabbed, he had never once summoned that bow. But for some reason they couldn't understand, that day, he finally did.

There were no jets to scramble, no SHIELD handlers to call in. There was Tony, Steve, Sam, and Bruce. They didn't want to wait for Thor. Sam had to get to the Tower for his wings. Bruce decided to stay behind and get the other members of the team together while Tony and the captain blasted across the ocean together for the Bavarian Alps. The altitude and high speeds nearly worked to peel the captain off Stark's metal plating more than once, but each time he gripped a little harder, a little stronger, in his desperate attempt to get to his teammate before the worst happened.

Apparently, they weren't fast enough. At least, in Clint's mind, they failed him. After all he'd been through alone, he finally called for their help. But the sheer distance between them kept the Avengers from getting to him fast enough.

What had he lost? What had he been forced to do that he thought he might be able to avoid if they were there? Did this have something to do with his brother? Steve racked his mind to try and understand, but came up with no one thing that made sense. All he could do now was find them food, water, shelter, and hope that help would come. For the first time in a very long time, Captain America felt absolutely helpless.

He followed the scanners in Stark's helmet to a small, fast moving creek bed, half a mile away from where he'd left the two. The majority of the trees lining the water had expansive bases and wide reaching limbs that continued to keep the sky far from view. Dangling between the man-sized leaves were objects he could only acquaint to acorns. The nuts had elongated fleshy bodies, as soft as grabbing a handful of feathers. The cap that held them onto the branch was made of thicker wood. Peeling the nuts free, he collected a few caps to hold the water in.

As he worked to siphon the water through the soft mesh on his glove, Steve peered over the creek to the wood beyond. A small clearing, covered in moss, resided just on the other side of the massive river stones, and an even larger tree encompassed the midst of the clearing. The Captain set the water caps aside again and, using Tony's helmet, shined the light from the top into the distance. If he wasn't mistaken, the tree was not just a tree. It had a tiny door carved into the trunk.

:(:):(:):

In the span of an hour, Clint went from walking, running, and hiding on his own, to being barely mobile at all. His chest continued to squeeze down on him like a vice had been laced across it. Each time he felt the urge to cough, a pain flared into his shoulder. He gasped against it. He pushed his left fist in between his teeth and bit down into the tight flesh. It helped keep his mind from focusing on his shoulder, but only briefly. The smell was inescapable. He knew this wouldn't end well. He wanted to find help, but feared hearing that word that he has managed to escape his entire life: _amputation_.

The one thing Clint feared. The only thing that could touch him now was the pain that came with losing his bow arm. His brother tortured him with that possibility once. Clint lived through a false life where he could never shoot again, and it was the one thing that drove him to near complete madness. Even as the venom flooded his system, his entire mind focused on only that idea. Never being able to shoot again would unmake him.

"Don't let them take it." Clint whispered.

Tony sat in the roadway beside him, with Clint's back against his iron chest. Clint had trouble holding himself up, but if he laid down he couldn't breathe.

"Don't let them take what?" Tony asked him.

"My arm. Don't let them take it. Promise me they won't take it." A spike of pain, like a fire being set in his nerves, made his muscles tense. He breathed through it, slow and shallow. Tony would do as he asked. Steve would make the decision that saved Clint's life, even if it meant destroying his very soul, but not Tony. Tony would honor this.

"You know I'd just make you a new one. You and the Winter Toddler could match."

Another flare hit him, harder and deeper than the first. From his neck to his back, everything electrified at the same time. The intensity of it caught him off guard and he gasped. He shoved himself back, trying to escape it. Tony tightened an arm on him as if somehow that may help.

"All right, don't take it like that. No chopping. Got it. But you have to do me a favor and stop making us meet like this."

The second wave subsided, leaving Clint feeling hollow and empty. His muscles relaxed, and he nearly collapsed into Stark's chest. He tried to breathe a little deeper, but met resistance. Blood continued to flood his lungs.

"As long as we're making orders here, how does a slice of pizza sound? You know, I heard that place in Brooklyn—"

A third wave hit him like the blow of a typhoon. The pain went even deeper, spreading, as if with each pulse the venom pushed farther and harder into the very marrow of his bones. No manner of tension could keep his pain in check.

Clint screamed. His nails dug into Tony's iron leg as the flames of Hell itself consumed him from the inside out. The pain lasted longer, killing him slowly, then ebbed away like the thud of a marching war drum. He gasped, trying to suck in whatever oxygen he could get.

"Clint, talk to me!" Tony demanded. Had he been talking this whole time? Clint couldn't remember. He felt dazed. The world was black and silent around him as the woods themselves pushed in to watch the archer die.

"Ton—y." A fourth crest smashed him like a punch from the Hulk. Clint had nothing left to resist it. He screamed into the night even as his body struggled to breathe. Between his cries, he tried, taking in one shuttering gasp after another until the pain hit him again.

Steve didn't need the help of Stark's helmet to find them again. He merely followed the sounds.

"I found us a place to bed down." Steve said as he came closer. He handed the helmet to Tony.

"Help?" Stark asked.

Steve shook his head a little. "We have to get him up, they'll hear him out here. We've got to move. I left water there for us."

As the last spasm slowly drew away, the two worked together to get Clint on his feet. The archer stopped talking, stopped responding. His mind filled with hardly more than fantasies and delusions from an intoxicated mind. He didn't resist when Steve scooped him up against his chest and carried him through the forest din.

* * *

despite how much he blames Tony for letting him down, Clint stills knows to trust him. daw!

Next time: Elven Song


	10. Elven Song

_I love this chapter:) blood, pain, song to follow. Steel yourselves._

* * *

**Chapter 9 -Elven Song-**

He'd tracked his way from the glen with the Bifrost runes back to the Elven Way. He still held out some hope that the three stuck to its path. If Barton knew anything of Alfheimr, he would remember to follow the trail. But what if he had been pursued? What if they were set upon by a Southling or beast? Would they have diverted and lost their way into the all-encompassing darkness? Haladarrel could rest on conjecture alone as he hiked through the wood. He used his hearing to keep his path straight until, at long last, the rising sun bore down overhead. It had been a long, sleepless night. He had the strength to go on for another quarter moon, but he knew the archer would not. Haladarrel had to push himself, to his limits and beyond if that's what it took to save his kingdom.

He kept the little book of the healer's regime close to his chest while he ran. There would be no use in him finding the archer if he had lost the treatment with which to save him. Still, Haladarrel held out hope that another Elf had come to his aid already. That, by now, the Champion of Midgard, Brother of Asgard, and Elect of Odin had received the cure he needed to survive this horrible blow. Standing in the path of the Elven Way, his ears perked heavenward as the sounds of animalistic agony reached him. At first, he wondered whether it was a velgenath trapped in some poacher's snare, or even the dying breath of a stag. The closer he came, however, the more the truth of the matter became known. It was the sound Haladarrel had been waiting to find in these dark and lonely woodlands; a man in pain, a Midgardian in the throes of elaren with no assistance to be had.

No assistance, until now.

He stepped up his pace, running through the thick brush and over-tangled limbs of the ancient woods. Before losing his head, the Southling neglected to mention how much venom he used on the arrow's shaft. He could only speculate how long he still had to save the man. If the Midgardian had advanced this far, it was possible no healing he attempted would end well. So much remained unknown.

The sounds of the screaming cut him to his very core. He followed them like a beacon, desperate to reach him as swiftly as possible. If the venom extended this far, he was in very dire straits indeed. He found himself wandering off of the Elven Way, along a path that was nearly imperceptible unless in the light of day. He was very familiar with this area and what lay just beyond the snaking body of the Lkshia Waters. How the archer and his companions had discovered it in the dead of night, he could not understand, but it was fortuitous.

The great oak Faramir stood out before him. Limbs like the arms of giants stretched up toward the hidden sky above, while its roots pushed outward, clearing its place amongst the choking forest. Faramir was hollow inside, at least partly. An old friend to the crown once resided there years before he disappeared to Midgard, never to return. Haladarrel approached cautiously. The sounds of a tortured man emitted from behind the tiny door that led into the hollow. He also knew the archer was not the only one to have been transported to Alfheimr, others were with him. Two, to be exact. And they would defend their friend to the death if they suspected foul play. His best course was not to sneak up upon them like a thief stealing through the night. Instead, he called out to the door, with his bow and sword resting away from him but well within sight.

"Le suilon!" _I greet you!_ Haladarrel said, loud enough to be heard over the anguished cries of the man he came to save.

The door flung inward. A man dressed in blue, white, and red completely filled the small crevice of doorway and stared out at him. His face was flushed, and both frightened and determined. Blue crystalline eyes cut across the landscape to ascertain many things at once; first the elf, then the weapons lying on the ground, and the lack of immediate reinforcements. Haladarrel could see nothing behind him as the man's mass was so great. The screams of the pained archer though, came louder than before.

"Pedil edhellen?" _Do you speak elvish?_ Haladarrel pressed.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

Haladarrel's palms remained toward him, his body inclined forward at the waist to show he indeed meant only to help. The king told him that these men were outsiders, that they most likely would have no idea of the customs of Elves. He would have to take care not to insult their intelligence, or their own Midgardian rules of etiquette.

"I intend no harm toward you." Haladarrel said quietly, still inclining. "I am an emissary of our King Rinon and her majesty Fehreh. I have come to treat he who is of Midgard and Asgard, the elect of Odin."

The man did not trust him. Good. It meant he was not only of great intelligence, but also not blinded by his panic for his friend to trust the first elf that happened across them.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

Haladarrel took a step backward, then to the left. Signs of submission in Elvish may have been difficult to translate to the Midgardian, so he hoped these steps furthered his position. The last time he exercised such nonsense, it was as a lad to the overwhelming authority of his mother. He truly hoped there were no other outriders waiting in the wood observing this act.

"Av'osto." He whispered. "Do not fear me. Your friend is dying. I have come to save him, for all of Alfheimr I must do this. Without my help, he will assuredly perish. But if you will allow me, perhaps I could save him. Then you will know whether I will be trusted. Your enemy will do what they must to see the archer of Midgard dead."

Someone within Faramir whispered to the blue, white, and red man, for his head turned slightly to his left to consult with him. Hal knew there must be two carrying the archer through the forest of Woodrenkell. This was his first indication of the second being within. After a brief consultation, the crystal eyes returned to Haladarrel's. He nodded briefly.

"What choice do we have?"

"I am afraid that it is very limited." Haladarrel replied. He straightened, grateful to be out of his twisted position and further gratified he did not have to resort to another step backward and left. That would almost have been too much to bear. He used the toe of his boot to push his weapons aside until they were against one of the large tree roots. He doubted they would be allowed within the small hovel, but he did not want to risk their discovery and removal either. Covering them in detritus, he was satisfied that they would not immediately be found. The Midgardian removed himself from the doorway to allow Haladarrel within. He wished he had considered bringing a roll of cotton tail moss with which to pack his ears from the screams of the archer on the floor. Within the confines of the hollow oak, the sounds seemed to have magnified exponentially. To the sensitive senses of an Elf, it was nearly overwhelming.

Sitting at the elbow of the reclining victim, was the second man Haladarrel had tracked. Or at least, it seemed to be a man. He was entirely covered in red and gold metal, forged in an intricate fire to produce such detailed design. His chest provided the only light, emitting a blue hue which bathed the sickly feature in unnatural patterns of color and radiance. Even with the poor setting, Haladarrel could plainly see the man was in dire condition. Forgetting the others for a moment, he fell to his knees beside the fellow. Slender fingers framed the man's face. It burned in fever. Barton's mouth trailed in blood that, between his agonized cries, he coughed out upon the floor. His wound was easily discovered. Its gnarled and grey edges traced the black tendrils of venom Haladarrel made himself familiar with.

"Nai," Hal whispered. This was worse than he imagined. Worse even than he thought a fellow elf was capable of doing to a man. It would have been different should one simply have wanted the death of the archer. Such could be accomplished with so many easier toxins. This was torture. This was almost personal. Nay, it must have been personal.

"Boe de nestad. Goheno nin." _It is necessary to heal him. Forgive me. _He shook his head, trying to force his brain to speak plain for these men. They could not help him if they did not understand him.

"Forgive me," he repeated himself in the common language. "He needs healing. An arrow dipped in elaren's venom has beset him. He will die without my aid, and to help him I need these things."

He removed from his pocket the little book the queen had given to all the riders. He flipped through the pages, searching for the one speaking of elaren envenomation. Beneath him, the screams and pants of the tortured archer continued. Finding the proper page, he handed the book to the blue and white dressed man. It was written in elvish, but the pictures could be easily translated by any man.

"Those things, I require. I have some here." He withdrew the small pouch of items he'd collected along the way. "The others can easily be found in Woodrenkell, but I need them as swiftly as you can. Could you find them?" He leaned over the archer's body as he spoke. They had already removed his shirt, hoping to bring the fever down. There was a line of tegu caps along the wall. Some were filled with spring water, others empty. These men were resourceful, and had worked well with the few things they had.

The Migardian perused some of the pictures, a look of familiarity passing his eyes when he encountered some. "I can. How far is Woodrenkell from here?"

Haladarrel's hands stayed. Slowly, his head pivoted to look into the crystal eyes again. Then he turned and scrutinized the reflective face of the thus-far silent metal man.

"You . . . you do not know where you are?" Neither offered any hope to dispel his statement. "This is Woodrenkell. You are already here."

The soldier tucked the book into a pocket at his waist. Without further instruction, he headed out into the dawn, pulling the oak door closed behind him as he left.

Across from Haladarrel, the metal man did something truly unique. With a pop, whirl, and hiss, his face was removed like that of a helmet, and the person hidden beneath was revealed. He was a Midgardian as well, shorter and less toned than the other. He had black cropped hair that was longer on the top and kept short along the sides, and facial hair in a design Hal had never observed.

"You hurt him, and I won't hesitate burying you." the metal man warned him.

"What I am to do is not easy. None of what must now be undertaken is. He will be pained by it, but, if fortunate, survive."

"Can you help him?" He spoke for the first time in a tone that matched the man who'd gone. It was obvious both men held a deep concern for their friend.

"I am not sure." Haladarrel replied honestly. "I do not believe I need to tell you this is very grave. Very grave indeed."

"He was mad at us for not coming sooner." He went on, more to himself than for the benefit of the elven man. "I yelled at him, screamed at him. He was in the middle of giving it all back to me when he got hit. I was the reason why he was distracted."

Haladarrel allowed the man to speak the fears he no doubt had been carrying for a good while in his mind. He could see the despair, like its own sickness creeping across the features of his face. He was helpless, hopeless, and he believed, wholly believed, he was the sole cause of this tragedy. There was little Haladarrel could do to ease his fears. He was not a comforter of the spirits of men. He was a hunter, a tracker, and held just enough knowledge of the healing arts to make himself useful. With the help of the metal man, he lifted the archer's chest up and placed himself against the fevered back of the Midgardian. The man could hardly breathe beyond the blood filling his lungs. If he did not get it out soon, he would drown within himself, and this entire mission would be for naught. For him to begin to breathe, he must relax. For him to relax, Haladarrel must command him to. That meant he would grasp on to whatever consciousness remained in the dying man and bring it forward. Haladarrel must control the archer.

"When your friend returns, grind the herbs he brings." Haladarrel explained. He crossed his arms over the archer's chest and eased Clint's back against him.

"Add to it what I have brought. When you are ready, place your hand on my arm and I will tell you what to do next."

Haladarrel's eyes slid closed as he held the archer. He spoke to the metal man no longer. His words were for one alone, and they were meant to coax the life back from death. He began in elvish, spinning words in an arc of seeming gibberish meant to soothe their way into the Brother of Asgard's mind. They flowed like a melody of a song, or the rhyme of a verse whose translation was long forgotten to time.

"El ai sila re e-vanua te

Emre te neca mey leh're

Gi siune fara ni'ca ama fe

Beren fae,

Arhe-heren fae

Meta'e he-re`

He-re"

"My words they reach the archer's ear

They ease the soul to lean, to hear

To bend thy bow and arrow fly

Never a word toward goodbye

The end of thy very life I hold

Take this breath and be consoled

Be consoled"

The elf, his arms wrapped carefully around the drowning archer, inhaled. In the same moment, the Midgardian did also. It was a shaky, pained inhalation, but he followed the direction. Again, Haladarrel whispered the fast little words, drawing out the conscious man trapped behind the walls of terror and agony of the venom's fire in his veins. At the end of the verse, a breath was taken, long and deep. The archer paused his scream, inhaled a sick and shallow breath as deeply as he could muster, and exhaled in time with Haladarrel's own.

"Good." The elf whispered. "We must breathe. To live we must. We will do this together."

The elf breathed. The archer, through his daze, ceased all movement and focused for those brief moments on nothing but his own inhalation and exhalation. They continued this circle until Haladarrel was certain the archer understood what was happening around him. Then, it was time to change their focus.

"Ecanre mea fel'reta tairna

Maceru Eneru, istoni ni edhellen

Gwest van a mie gin

Nathalam pres'ali

Cerig en ali

Van agarel me`evadehal

Me'evadehal"

"The pain of treacheries fleeting passed

The arrows shaft where the venom lasts

Flowing from the heart of stone

Agony of betrayal cut to bone

Away and heal the shattered heart

Away the grief that rends apart

That rends apart"

A breath taken inward was managed by both. As the archer exhaled, the tense wrought of his muscles seemed to ease. He collapsed more fully against the support that Haladarrel offered him. At the next shared breath, Clint's did not end in a scream. His body sunk more deeply into the embrace, and he began to still. The metal man watched, mesmerized, as the elf eased the agonized screams of his friend. Soon, there was nothing but the silent gasping of the archer with each inhalation, and the whispered elvish rhymes.

Time crawled slowly by as they waited the return of the soldier. How much time was unknown, as the forest did little to offer such considerations. When the proper objects had been gathered at last, the door was pressed open by the bulk of the white and blue dressed man. Without waiting, the metal man instructed what must be done to the herbs and roots. Together, they set to it.

A hand fixed on the elf's arm. He broke his mind from its concentration briefly to indicate the tegu caps along the wall.

"Separate some of the dry amalgam. Add water to the rest, make a paste."

The soldier did so. He took a large metal shield that once stood beside the door, and flipped it upside down. In the dish, he placed the dry ingredients, and the rest he placed into one of the empty acorn caps. Slowly, he added water to it, using his hands to mix, mix, mix, until it was blended into something with the consistency of a sticky sauce. The odor was pleasant at least, unlike most medicines he surely experienced in life.

"Well done." Haladarrel whispered. To the archer, he said. "Our challenge has arrived. This venom will be drawn from you. You will live."

Clint took a gasping breath to match the deep one of Haladarrel. Haladarrel nodded to the soldier.

"Place it in his wound. Coat it thickly."

The man did not hesitate. He took a scoop of it in his hand and smeared it into the necrotic wound. At the touch, the archer screamed. He bucked in Haladarrel's hands, but the metal man leaned against him to keep him still. The soldier did not feign his duty. He packed the wound, despite the protests and cries of pure torment.

"Áva sorya." _Do not dread._ Haladarrel told him. "Cerig en ali." _Breathe with me._

The poultice was in place. The soldier sat back on his knees, waiting to be of use again or to see what may happen next. Was this some instant cure to their friend's lamentation? It was impossible to know without instruction from the preoccupied elf.

After slowly easing the archer back into the trance he developed for him, Haladarrel at last looked up at the two again. "His breath is shallow. He will not survive without removing the blood in his lungs. It is a dangerous process. He may lose too much and his heart may fail to beat again."

"What do you need me to do?" the metal man asked without hesitation.

"We must burn what remains. It is a powerful smoke. He may not be strong enough, but we have no choice."

The metal man held out a gauntlet toward the shield. "Give it to me." He commanded the soldier.

The entire shield was passed between them. In a shock of blinding flash, the hollow erupted with the high pitched whirr of an energy blast. The mixture of herbs erupted in blue hued light. When the light was gone, only the crackling of a golden fire remained in the center of the shield. With the gauntlet hand, the man held up the smoking herbs.

Haladarrel had to admit he was impressed with the two men. "Feed the smoke. Blow into his face and allow him to take it in. Prepare yourselves. This will not be easy."

The metal hands came together, and the man's lips blew into the smoldering medicine. The smoke rose between his fingers and drifted into his friend's face. Haladarrel continued his elven whispers, keeping the archer's mind in the present, and working as hard to his own recover as the men around him. As he inhaled, the swirling tendrils of grey clouds entered his bluish lips. He breathed out. A small cough; the first indication of a change. The metal man continued to feed the smoke, and the archer sucked it in deeper and deeper. His cough worsened. He struggled to inhale. Hal leaned him forward and, like a torrent, the blood began to feed from between his lips.

He choked, coughed, would scream if he could, but the feeling of drowning overcame and panicked his mind. The smell of burning weeds encompassed the hollow of Faramir as, throughout the day and into the dark of night, the men worked tireless hours to drag their friend from the claws of the agents of death.

* * *

a few readers wanted to hear the sounds/tune of the elvish songs i wrote, so i actually sang them and posted the sounds on my author facebook page.

Poor Clint. I do love to ruin him.

my editor mentioned that i have officially "hotbox-ed" Clint. didn't know what that was till i looked it up. oh my.

Next time: Not Your Typical Midgardians


	11. Not Your Typical Midgardians

_In which Steve gets an awesome line_

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Chapter 10 -Not Your Typical Midgardians-

Silence fell throughout the hollow for nearly three hours before, at last, the elf shifted from his position. Steve sat with his back to the inner trunk, flanked on either side by the herb filled tegu caps Steve collected from the trees around them. He'd left the hollow no less than six times in the night in his need to collect more fresh water. Tony never moved from his position at Clint's side. Tony had hyperventilated numerous times from feeding the smoke with the billows of his breath. They traded places more times than Steve could count, but it was a long, torturous night for all of them. After it all, Tony sat up in his suit, fast asleep.

As the elf began to move, Steve leaned forward and shouldered some of Clint's weight. Four hands eased the archer down until his head rested on the ball of yehlen moss the elf had instructed Steve to find. Haladarrel looked up at the soldier with an air of exhaustion.

"I believe he may live." He whispered to Steve.

His words were never certain, and they did not exude the positivity Steve needed. He wanted to know that Clint was alive. That there was nothing wrong, and Clint would recover from this like he recovered from everything that befell him in life.

The elf stood in the cramped space of the hollow and angled beside Steve to get to the door. Fresh air was a welcome respite from the long sleepless night. Steve helped him to his feet, but as he moved, the elf's legs began to collapse. His body pitched forward, and Steve barely reached him before the elf found himself sprawled flat. With Rogers beneath him, he limped toward the door. Steve reached out and pulled the hollow open, but at the elf's indication, he slowly dropped the outrider at the door frame.

"Midgardians are fragile." He whispered, not wishing to disturb the sleeping pair across from them. "I forget how fragile."

The soldier retrieved a tegu cap of water and returned with it. He held it out for the weak elf to take, yet it was obvious he hadn't even the strength for that. Steve held it to his lips and allowed him to drink. his voice was harsh and dry from his whispered songs.

"It is all that can be done. I confess I can do no more." He went on after sipping the fluid.

"I think you did enough." Steve told him.

"If only I had found you sooner. You made a fast distance on foot. With a man injured as he was, I still had the challenge of overtaking you. It was not until you stopped here in Faramir I had hope of catching up. If only it was sooner."

Steve set the tegu cap aside. "We weren't alone out here. We've been chased by every other thing that lives in this forest. You're the first one that's come along we didn't need to run from. He's doing better now, we owe that to you. I think it is safe to say you've earned my trust. I know Tony would agree."

The elf leaned against the arch of the oak door, casting an eye toward the sleeping Stark. "Tony?" he asked.

"I guess we really never did introduce ourselves." He held out a hand. "Captain Steve Rogers."

The elf looked at the offered hand for a moment, wondering what he was supposed to do with it. It must have been some Midgardian greeting he was unfamiliar with. "Haladarrel Bywater. I know little of the customs of Midgardians."

The hand retracted. "Forget it. The sleeping guy is Tony Stark. He has precious few friends in the world, and one of them is Clint. We didn't exactly leave Earth on the best of terms with each other. Tony blames himself for all this."

Haladarrel nodded. "So it was made known to me in your absence."

Before Steve spoke again, the slow hum of the waking forest was interrupted by the blast of a horn. Rogers leaned to his right to look outside. No doubt some animal or other was disgruntled out there, and wanted the whole of the world to know it. He considered sliding the door shut in case this one proved just as unfriendly as the others they had encountered.

"More Southlings, no doubt." Haladarrel whispered.

"That was a man?"

"Not a man, an Elvin clan of sorts. They have tracked you nearly as closely as myself. I left false trails in my wake, but they will be upon us if they ride to faralirs." Haladarrel moved to stand again, but Steve placed a hand on his shoulder and forced him back. He was very surprised with the force of the gentle shove. In a way, it was as if he pressed against a brick wall.

"They're riding giant cats with antlers if that's what you're asking. And they've had us pinned down since the minute we dropped out of the Bifrost. I need you to sit. You're the only one of us who knows what they're doing with Clint. If he takes a turn, I need you conscious. I'm going out to scan the area and cover some trails. When I come back, I'll bring in your weapons. Don't move." Steve commanded.

With the last order leaving the impression of a warning rather than a request, Steve left through the door and shut it behind himself. Haladarrel had to admit that he underestimated these Midgardians. He had no doubt in his mind the man could go out and track well enough to lay some false trails, and, at that, take care of himself should he run into a scout or two. So in the solace that followed his exit, Haladarrel cast his eyes about the tiny hovel.

The iron suited man, Stark, remained upright and deep in his sleep without any sign of rising. Clint, Haladarrel had difficulty referring to his charge by such common terms, was at ease. He breathed steadily on his own now without inspiration from another. His body was healing, slowly, but effectively. Despite the horn blows of the coming line of assassins, they were in relatively fair shape. Haladarrel must decide how he could take the three men out of Woodrenkell and back toward Lakeheed or Earthenden. Heading to the coast and hiring a ship in Outer Glencove seemed most appropriate. That still meant there were near twenty leagues of thick forest between them and that coast. It was not a prospect he liked.

Haladarrel yawned, allowing his head to rest against the frame at his back. He was so very tired, from the great journey he left behind and the one still lying before him. He decided it was best to take the captain's advice and rest while the opportunity presented itself.

* * *

:(:):(:):

* * *

Most of the day had already sunk away when Haladarrel's eyes opened again. The soldier was lying across from him along the curved wall, with a pile of yehlen moss cushioned beneath him. Stark had changed shape again, the metal suit sat beside him like a life form of its own, while the man once hidden within sat unmoved from his friend's side. The poultice was new.

"He seems better." Stark said when he noticed the elf's eyes upon him.

"I felt the fever fall away from him in the night." Haladarrel replied.

"I don't know what you said to him." The man went on. He had a way of seeming to speak to himself despite holding a conversation with another. "I didn't understand any of the words, but they helped. That shouldn't have worked. It doesn't make any sense."

Haladarrel leaned forward, rubbing a hand across his face. He explained, "They are old verses. King Rinon mentioned the Brother of Asgard was familiar with some Elvish."

"He's been here and Asgard more than the rest of us, save Thor." Tony said.

"Perhaps he knew enough to follow my words without me being too forceful over him. I'm an Outer Glencove elf. We have a close relationship to the water and wind. When I command something to breathe, it has no choice. It must do it." Haladarrel said.

"Is that why Rinon sent you?"

"One of the reasons, yes."

A distant sound interrupted them, sending both men's eyes toward the wood door as Haladarrel's pointed ears pricked forward. The blare was a deep bellow at first, and then it rose into a sharp high thrill that lasted nearly a full minute. It ended slowly as the sharp note lowered more and more until they heard it no more.

"In the last three hours it's gotten louder and closer." Tony said to him. "They're as relentless as athlete's foot, and twice as annoying."

Haladarrel continued to stare toward the doorway for a few moments longer. Once sure no one was coming through after them, he crawled to Clint's side to check over the unconscious patient.

"That is the Kyalya horn of the hunter Ge'elaphi. And if he is in these woods, it can only spell trouble. "

"Will he find us here?"

"Undoubtedly. Faramir is well known in the Elven Clans, even in the Wild South where Ge'elaphi hails. He will know a Midgardian has taken refuge here in the past. And once they find this oak, they will raid it. We must move."

"Can we even move Clint in this condition?"

"That is what I am about to ascertain." Haladarrel indicated the sleeping Steve. "You best wake your friend. That horn was closer than I like. If the Southlings are indeed running with faralirs as he claimed, then we do not have much time to get out before they catch our scent."

"I can tell you first hand they are." Tony replied. He shifted from his cramped position, and worked his way over to Steve.

Haladarrel turned the archer's face toward his and slowly looked him over. He was no healer, though he knew enough of the arts to at least make him eligible for the quest of finding the Midgardians. The man was still pale. While the elaren cure could work miracles on extracting the venom from his body, it could do little to replace the blood that had been lost. He would be weak for some time until his body had a chance to recover itself. Beneath his poultice, the rotting flesh was slowly being stripped away from him. The man could do with a good visit to an Asgardian healing chamber, but given the rise in tensions, that option was mostly lost to them. As Haladarrel peeled the tacky mixture out of his wound, the archer grimaced. Clint's eyes opened when Haladarrel packed a fresh paste of herbs in.

"Ow." He whispered through blood tinged lips.

"Goheno nin." Haladarrel told him. "Le suilon. I am Haladarrel Bywater, a king's outrider of Outer Glencove."

"Pedin edhellen." _I speak Elvish. _Clint replied. "I only speak some . . .edhellen, though."

"The common tongue is just as well." Haladarrel said.

Tony returned after shaking Steve to his senses. It figured the minute he moved away that Clint woke up. In a way, he wanted to grab the archer's hand. But that would have been strange between them, and most likely alarm the archer more than put him at ease.

"Hi, you big idiot. What? Did Hell decide to throw you back?" Tony asked, hiding the internal joy at seeing his friend more or less back in the land of the living.

"All dogs go . . . to heaven, Tony. My arm?" His eyes slid closed again.

"No one took it. I promised that, didn't I? I always keep my word."

"No you . . . don't."

"Well, this time I did. You're going to be ok."

Clint grimaced at Haladarrel's inspection of his exit wound.

Haladarrel said, "I am keeping this tended. It is troublesome, I fear. I am sorry it cannot be easier for you."

"Not dead's a bonus." Clint pointed out optimistically.

Hearing him attempt a joke nearly brought a grin to Tony's face. "You're going to have some good stories out of this little venture."

"Not working on a . . . biogr- you know."

"Maybe you should. Dark Days of the Poor and Archer."

As Steve was fixing his shirt, Tony assisted in supporting Clint's arm while Haladarrel finished his inspection of the archer's back. Another blast of Ge'elaphi's horn blew. It was still distant, but any trained ear could tell it was getting closer. The three stopped to listen to its haunting crescendo.

"That's a kyalya horn." Clint whispered, claiming their attention. "What do they hunt?"

"You, apparently. Don't you remember?" Tony said grimly. Over his shoulder, he addressed Steve. "We've got to move."

Steve nodded and began to gather their few belongings.

"We are fortunate. I did not meet them along the journey to Woodrenkell. We have the benefit of their not knowing I am here to lead you out." Haladarrel placed the leftover healing herbs back into the tegu cap, and washed his hands in the remaining water.

"Outer Glencove?" Clint asked. His mind wasn't clear, that much was painfully obvious to his friends.

"Yes, Outer Glencove. I am an outrider."

"We need to make it to the coast." Clint said, attempting to get up. Haladarrel held a hand against him to keep him down.

"We shall. The royals are in Earthenden. We must take a ship from the coast and meet there. It is imperative to get you out of Alfheimr. Despite the illustrious fame you surely entertain, it has come to my attention that the sole reason to have you here is to see to your death. It is something I would prefer to avoid."

"Where's Tasha?" Clint asked.

Tony spoke softly. "She's back home. She's fine. We'll go see her and everyone when this is all over. How's that sound? We'll slip a cell phone into Thor's pocket again and watch him freak out."

Clint nodded his head only slightly, but his strength began to fail. Before long, he slipped back into unconsciousness again. Haladarrel let him go. It was better to let him have his rest. They still had a long journey ahead of them.

"We can form a skid to take him in. There lie twenty leagues between the coast and Faramir. It will be a difficult run."

"I'll carry him." Steve said, placing the star shield on his back.

"It will be an arduous expedition." Haladarrel replied skeptically.

To dispel his concerns, Steve leaned down and effortlessly lifted Clint into his arms. The archer never awakened and, in fact, seemed contented in the position he'd slowly grown accustomed to.

Haladarrel's eyebrows came together in a peak. "Midgardians are a truly advanced race. Nothing like the weakness I have been instructed of."

"We're not your typical Midgardians. We're the Avengers." Steve told him.

* * *

Some may have noticed the name "Faramir" it is intentional. more explanations to come. then of course there is this:

_Next time: Searching for a Hobbit Hole_

PLEASE REVIEW!


	12. Searching for a Hobbit Hole

_So it's official everyone, I've written the final line for this story (about 100,000 words from now). In lieu of that, i think i will be nicer and update more often!_

_Prepare to be amazed._

_Special shout out to my wonderful long-time editor icanhearthedrums (enjoy the vacay! Miss you!) and my newly acquired beta JRBarton. You gals keep the world spinning_

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**Chapter 11 –Searching for a Hobbit Hole-**

The closer they came to the waves of the coast, the thinner the forest drew. The heaviest of the brush peeled back, allowing wider allies for the three to track down separate from the main paths of the Elven Way. It was the best thing for them. Ge'elaphi's forces, and the Southlings supporting him, had turned back at some point. No doubt by now they had uncovered the temporary fortress of Faramir, and continued their endless march forward, onward, like an unstoppable force devouring everything in their paths. If Thor's opinion could be consulted, then this chase was comparable to being chased by raging bilgesnipe.

The two Avengers held to their word of keeping up, though they took turns carrying their indisposed friend. Haladarrel had no doubt in his mind that either one was sufficient enough to do the job single-handedly. However, there existed a sort of kinship from the simple act of transporting the archer in their arms. There was little else they could do to help him in general, and this was the only way they may show their support for him.

Despite the swiftness of their pace, the Southlings continued to gain on them. Every step they took toward the coast was dogged in the footfalls of faralirs and the smaller tchelins. If they did nothing to slow the progression of that front, very soon the four would be overwhelmed. As the reality struck him, Haladarrel skidded to a halt just before they reemerged on the Eastern edge of the Elven Way. Something must be done, and for the good of his kingdom, he would be the one to stay behind.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked, slowing beside him. He could see from the determined gleam in the elf's eye what he planned already.

"Oh, no you don't!" Tony exclaimed. He stopped a few yards ahead. Barton still lay unconscious in his fireman's hold. He'd refused to give him up to any other for the last few leagues.

"Haladarrel, I know you want to give us a chance, but we need to stick together here. You know how to treat him, we don't. And you know the way to the coast. We can't afford to lose you." Steve reasoned.

"Here you can. I have come as far as I should. If I do not turn back now and distract them, you have no hope of escape at all." He pointed down the cobblestone path. "Continue on the Way. You shall come to a crossroads where the path forks into the valley or the trees. Take the right fork through the trees and do not slow! You shall encounter a marker, a small stone stuck in the earth and marked in red, follow that to the home of Doodle Bygrove. He is my kin, and will do everything you ask of him."

"No, no," Steve continued to protest, waving off the instructions like visible flies. "Those Southlings, or whatever they are, are going to kill you. You leave us, and it's a death sentence. Together, at least we can do something."

"To harm another Elf is among the greatest atrocities in our land. If they harm me, they consign themselves to death. As yet, they know nothing of my travels with you, and that could be the one thing that assures my safety." He removed his pack and sword, handing both to Steve. His memory conjured at once the image of his king being stabbed by the hand of the Southling, but despite his reservations, he had to at least try and speak amicably with Ge'elaphi's hunters. Above all, he must divert them to buy them time.

Tony said. "Let him go, Cap. We know he's right. We've got to bunk down, recharge, and get out of this wood. We can't do that with an army on our tails."

Haladarrel clapped the Captain on his shoulder and postured slightly to the right. "Do not fear for me, warrior. All will be well, and I shall rejoin you in the home of my kinsman."

With his final reassurance, the Elf left them with nothing more than his bow and a handful of arrows. To take more may display the truth behind his being in the forest, and that was something he could not risk.

* * *

:(:):(:):

* * *

"Can I summarize something really quick?"

"I sure wish you wouldn't."

"We are still trapped in the middle of an alien forest full of things that want to eat us."

"Tony, please, five minutes of quiet."

"And what are we doing now? We've left our only guide to go off and get himself killed, while we follow the yellow brick road."

"Five. Minutes. Begging."

"After an _ELF_ named _DOODLE_. Seriously, someone just slap me awake right now. I can take it."

"I will take that to heart and slap you if that's what you want."

Tony stopped walking and turned toward the Captain. "Seriously, Steve, what are we even looking for?"

"You said it." Steve said, walking ahead. "An elf in the middle of the woods named Doodle."

"I swear, we're in Alice and Wonderland."

"If you were hoping I wouldn't get that reference, then you're wrong."

"What if I changed it to Yankee in King Arthur's court?"

"Still not winning your case." Steve pulled up short as the cobblestone path divided. He looked left, then right, and took the left path into the woodland.

"Did you just look both ways before crossing the street?"

"Tony, did your parents ever teach you the quiet game?"

"I wonder what Thor did when he showed up in the mountains and none of us were there. Do you think he saw the Bifrost path?"

They came across the small stone on the right of the path that signified Doodle Bygrove's home. Steve led the way through the hidden stone markers.

"I don't know. I hope he did. Maybe he'll show up here before we can get out on our own."

"Why did we even come here? Shouldn't we have ended up on Asgard? That's what gets me. Who, there, could have sent us here, and why did they do it? I thought Clint's guy-pal pointy-helmet controlled the thing."

"Heimdall does. That's why none of this makes sense to me either."

They rounded the base of an oak and followed the small red markers into the depths of the wood. Day cascaded back into darkness. Soon they would be spending their second night in the forest, and all Tony could consider was how long it may translate to in Earth days. If he based his calculations off of Asgardian time bending rules, that meant it had already been four and a half days on Earth. Then again, time wasn't exactly stable. It moved in a shifting parallelogram that Tony had difficulty mapping. The minute they reached forty-eight hours on Asgardian's time scale, everything jumped forward, and Earth and Asgard existed in the same plane. When they passed four days, the time would shift forward again, and the process would repeat in rising and falling crescendos.

As his mind occupied itself on sub-space quantum mechanics, Steve continued to do the tracking. When they arrived at the small dome-like hovel carved out of the base of a deceased oak-like tree, both pulled up to a stop.

"That is a hobbit-hole." Tony declared.

"I know that reference too, and no it's not." Steve admonished. He strode forward, ready to knock on the door before it suddenly pulled inward. A lengthy, angular face poked out of, what turned out to be, a very old Elf indeed. His chin sported a considerable crop of whiskers that reached from his receding line of white hair down to his belly. The strands had been tied into three intricate plates that wove in and out of each other, which matched the long flowing hair from his skull to his back. His ears had considerable points, which flowed along the dome shape of his forehead and curled up and back at the tips. Had it not been for the white of his hair, or the small creases in his face, one would think he was as young as Haladarrel.

"Who are you?" Doodle asked. He was very shocked at being disturbed from in his home, since he hardly received one visitor every thirty years or so.

"Haladarrel sent us here. Our friend is injured and we need someplace to care for him." Steve explained.

Doodle's two caterpillar like eyebrows bushed together as his long slender neck pushed his face toward Steve. He inspected him carefully, and then sniffed toward Tony. Two knuckles wrapped on the metal casing.

"Midgardians?" Doodle asked. "Men from Terra? Oh vihe." _Oh my_.

"The Bifrost brought us here, and there are men chasing after us." Steve continued.

"Men? There are no men here. None besides you. No one ever comes here. What is that dead thing that you carry? Why would Haladarrel send you to me? I have no connection with Asgardians." He leaned in a little closer and tapped Clint's cheek with his finger. The human was not as dead as he initially presumed, but he was still not far from it.

"He's been shot with a poison arrow - "

"Poison? Poison! Nasty business, that. I don't know what you expect out of me, though. Haladarrel, you mean? The son of my sister?"

Steve sighed. This was going to be more difficult than he surmised. "Yes. We parted ways on the path, and he told us how to find you. Our friend was shot with something called ela-ela-"

The elf thrust upward to his fullest height, a considerable length that overtook the doorway. He towered above Steve and Stark both as his eyes blew up to the size of saucer dishes. "Elaren! Why did you not say? Get this man inside! Inside, quickly! He let you move him in such a state as this? Well, I shall give a sound wallop to that boy when he returns. Will he return or has he simply sent you here? How did this man even survive to this point? Elarens only exist in the Blanklands. It is a venom, not a poison, my lad. Surely he has not come so far!"

Doodle rushed in behind them and shut the little door to his oak tree home. He indicated the long wicker-like sofa that framed out the sitting room. Before Tony could place Clint down, the elf rushed away through another small door and returned with a few thick furs. He placed those down over the woven vines first and assisted in letting Clint lie back. Next, he asked for whatever formula Haladarrel had concocted already, and took the remnants to a wash basin that served as his sink. He pumped a handle above the basin a few dozen times to siphon the fresh water up through the subterranean water shelf. When he had a sufficient amount, the herb paste was rehydrated and brought back in the tegu bowl to Clint's side. Steve had already worked Clint's arm out of its sling and wrappings.

The elf tsked at the sight. "Bad. Very bad. Has eaten its way through already. Has Haladarrel eased his breathing?"

"Last night." Tony accessed the panel on his helmet and removed it to set aside.

"Great Faramir! There is another of you hiding in all that muss! Strange race, you Midgardians. I knew one myself. I hear the stories from my children or nieces of the man they call the Archer, but I confess that is all I know of Terra."

"You're in for a treat." Steve said, sitting on the arm of the wicker couch. He indicated Clint. "That's the archer you heard about; Clint Barton. Asgard likes to call him the Champion of Midgard, along with half a dozen other things."

"Sleveho!" _An exclamation of surprise and delight with no English translation_. "This man? This, who sleeps like the dead on my settee, is he that hammer and bow wielding man who took a set against the Enchantress herself?"

"One and the same." Tony said. More seriously, he added, "Can you help him?"

Doodle filled his cheeks with air as he considered the prospect laid before him. It was the kingly duty of any elf to assist the weary and heavy burden who happened across their doorsteps. That was one reason he lived so very far from all society. He wasn't cut from the same cloth as most other elves. He preferred his solitude, silence, and books. He spent his days considering the advancement of a tree's bark along the core of its skeleton, and the development of patterns among what stars he could climb to see. Assisting the random passersby happened on so rare an occasion he nearly forgot his manners entirely.

"Help? Help? Of course I will help, I cannot not help. After all, an archer is no good with an arm that does not work, and if we leave this much longer, that is what he will become. I still do not understand what would cause Haladarrel to move him in such a state as this. He breathes much too shallow, but I fear taking any more of his blood from him would place too great a burden on his heart. We must flush him for now. For that, I need hot water. Nearly boiling water. I have a hearth, but I have not lit it in some time. It will be a challenge. I must find my sun stones . . ."

Doodle rambled and stood to look amongst his papers and ledgers to find the little bursts of sunlight that heralded his sun stones. He had only three or so remaining with which to strike into the heart and create fire. Where had he placed them? When was the last time he'd even needed such a thing?

"I can get the water heated." Tony offered, holding out the repulser on his hand. "Just find me a pot to hold it in and we'll be going in a couple minutes."

"Are you quite sure?"

"If it's faster than waiting for you to dig this place apart then light a fire in a dirty chimney that will probably smoke us out until we're dead? Yeah, I'm sure."

From where he lay, Clint suddenly interrupted them with a shallow moan. He inclined his head back as his eyes tightened against the light that tried to seep in. He coughed a little, gasped, and tried to roll onto his better side. Tony reached over from behind the couch and held him steady. He'd been carried for so long that, when at last they found a place to stop, he decided something must have been amiss and woke up.

"Lemme . . . be." He whispered, trying to push Tony's hand off of him.

"Stop fighting us." Tony warned.

"Stop saving me." Clint replied, lucid again. His eyes forced open and he looked up into Stark's face. "Keep telling you . . . stop saving me. Don't need your help."

"I'm not that good at listening to instructions."

Doodle dipped his iron pot into the basin of water he'd filled, and returned to place it on Stark's open palm. He stepped back to watch as the Iron Man suit fired up the single repulse on its lowest setting. As he worked to get the water boiling, Steve couldn't help a little jab.

"So, next time we're in the field, we're making you cook our pasta, right?"

"From the guy who burns rice."

"That was one time, and with enough chili garlic sauce it tasted fine. You're the one who screwed up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

"That ratio of proper jelly to peanut butter is an impossibility, and, therefore, should not exist."

Clint groaned, trying to turn over onto his side again to escape their voices. Steve held him in place this time.

"Your shoulder's open, I can't have you moving too much. Just sit tight." The captain told him.

"No." Clint replied stubbornly. "I can't breathe. I need . . . I need to sit . . ."

"Get the boy up!" Doodle instructed.

He came to the front of the couch and lifted Clint up until the blood in his lungs flooded down again. Once upright, he coughed again, then harder as a fit overtook him. Steve grabbed another dish from the wash basin and placed it beneath Clint's face as the blood spurt out of him. He panted and gulped air when he could, but already his muscles burned in exertion from the night before. He felt weak and shaky. His fingertips and toes were cold and blue from the lack of perfusion in his system. Nearly all of his blood remained in his most vital organs, or spewed out of his lungs.

"Take in shallow breaths." Doodle told him.

"Here's the water. Where do you want it?" Tony asked.

"My, you are a fast one. A glass from the kitchen, you with the peculiar colored garments. Bring it hither. Add this to it. Yes, these herbs here." He pulled out the rehydrated paste and handed it to Steve. "Add only a small amount. How hot is it? Let me touch. Yes, that will do."

"What are you doing to me?" Clint asked.

"Flushing this wound before it kills you. Your shoulder is broken, and I can feel your bones grind against one another. This will be painful, less than being infected with the dresken fever, but more than the initial throes of the venom feeding into your bones. Are you ready for it?"

Clint attempted to scramble away. It was all the inspiration Doodle needed. Taking the glass from Steve, he held the archer back and poured the burning liquid into the through-and-through gap in his bones. The scent of death and the chunks of black flowed from the opening in his back as Clint screamed under the torture of the flushed wound. His friends stood beside him, unable to do more than send him silent reassurances. Those hushed words were not enough to keep Barton from cursing at him in twelve different languages from one side of Elvish to the far side of Cantonese. When he wasn't struggling against his own inhalations, he grabbed the plates of Tony's armor as if to tear into him piece by piece. The utter ferocity that stole through him, the Avengers still could not place. What had hurt him so fully? What had destroyed his appreciation of them and his wanton desire to return to them, his home, and everything he loved?

Tony stopped trying to pry him off the suit. Let Clint tear it apart piece by piece if that's what he wanted. If this was the only attention he could get out of the archer, his best friend, then so be it. He would do what he must to be there for Clint. They were, in many ways, more alike than either cared to admit. Tony had the unfortunate habit of running away from his problems rather than facing them, a trait he shared in spades with Clint. If all the man wanted to do was disappear into the woods of Alfheimr and never come back, he had to have a good reason for it. Whatever he hid from them, he also blamed on them, and that in itself became a tough pill to swallow. If all Tony could do to show his support was stand there and take a few lumps to his suit, he planned to do just that.

The torture seemed to last on into infinity, but at some point the old elf declared he was finished. He'd used the last of the paste to fill the fleshy, raw trench of Clint's arm. At some point it would form a seal, he explained, and the flesh would heal into it like a graft of skin or bone. Tony had felt firsthand the effects of Asgardian healing chambers, he could only guess that Alfheimr had the same quality record.

Clint never lost consciousness, never disappeared within himself. He stayed awake and present for every torturous second he was forced to endure. When they were through at last, he fell to his left side against the back of the furs and wicker wood to rest and catch his breath. His brain had the greatest difficulty keeping up with everything happening to him. After a while, a random pain would shoot across him from nowhere at all, a residual effect of his nerves' massive wind up. Those phantom pains would no doubt haunt him for a long while to come.

Tony hovered beside him, regardless of the archer refusing to acknowledge his presence. Even the newly befriended Doodle could sense the thick tension bathing the room in the uncomfortable silence. It was his suggestion, or rather insistence, of getting both Stark and Rogers off into his own room to enjoy their individual respites that finally got the main room cleared. He gave both hearty, though misplaced, assurances that Barton would not possibly take a turn for the worse and that they did him more good by resting than hovering. At first, neither heeded his request, and were ready to all but fight him on the point. He did point out the fact that as a guest of an elven man, they were required to take his accommodations, lest he be forever despised in the eyes of his king. This was not completely true, but it did well enough to convince them to leave.

With no one left in the room but himself and Barton, he at last settled on the miniature stool beside the fire. After a long investigation, he'd come up with the sun stones with which to light it. The chimney did smoke a considerable amount. With time, the air cleared, and he could enjoy the cackling of the coals and wood as they released the sweet odor of fresh spring. He extracted his pipe and stuck it into the flames to get the contents burning. When it fizzled like miniature embers, he extracted it again and set the little wooden end in the corner of his mouth. He took up his graphite and papers, and then launched back into what he had been doing in the first place before his interruption. After all, new species of flowers did not catalog themselves.

* * *

I love Doodle. I just... i love him.

To: randomreader WITH a profile: Who reviewed this, just last chapter: _"Definitely the best line, Rogers. Faramir actually has some significance? Huh, well I might have to check that out... Okay, I love your chapter titles. "Searching for a Hobbit Hole..." **that's totally Stark talking**. Keep up the awesomeness!"_

I read your review, and couldn't stop laughing. You know my writing so well now. It brings me joy.

_Next time: Drunk Father, Gambling Brother, Dead Wolf_

PLEASE REVIEW!


	13. Drunk Father, Gambling Brother

Steel yourselves, there be angst ahead!

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**Chapter 12 –_Drunk Father, Gambling Brother, Dead Wolf-_**

Clint watched the old elf work by the fire. His curiosity mounted as Doodle's brows scrunched and relaxed, and his tongue slipped from between his lips and became trapped in his teeth. Haladarrel's relative had such a keen interest in his work, it was as if his guests never existed in the first place. Stark and Steve hadn't made themselves known for hours now. The fire attempted to die out once or twice, but as his light diminished, the old Doodle fed another log, or a disappointing page into the hearth to feed the flames a little brighter. The heat was welcome on Clint's face. So much of him felt cold now, like the feeling he received after exiting a desert into an air-cooled command post. He couldn't help the occasional shiver that rocked through him.

Doodle raised his eyes to the form on his couch. The pipe had stopped smoking long ago, but it continued to stick in the side of his mouth as if it may come back to life on its own accord. He removed it temporarily to direct it toward Clint.

"Are you cold, archer?" he asked.

"No." Clint told him. "Not really, no."

"It is a warm fire. But accept my gift if you would be so kind. Le're thelaw, ablahalae." _It is all that can be done. _He lifted the quilted fiber blanket from the back of another miniature chair and spread it over Clint's body. Barton gratefully took the end of it in his good hand.

"It's not necessary. Le fael." _You are generous._

Doodle retreated to his stool, and removed the pouch of smoking weeds from his mantel. He carefully packed the bulb of his pipe and, lighting it, he returned to the archer's side. He sat again on his stool with the drawings laid on the table before him. He inhaled a little from the pipe, and then passed it to Clint.

"I don't smoke." Clint said.

"This, you do. It is what draws that death from your lungs."

"In that case … I still refuse. I don't think I can take that … again. Not right now."

"The concentration is not as strong as Haladarrel surely created before. This, you may tolerate without expecting to lose a lung or a rib in the process. Though, if it works as expected, you will suffer one terrible tummy ache." He lifted Clint's good hand and placed the pipe in it. Barton had the impression he never took no for an answer.

He considered the simply carved pipe in his hand, and had a brief impression of his mother. She was a three-pack-per-day woman, and there weren't many days he remembered seeing her without a cancer stick scissored between her fingers. It always turned him off to the idea, but with his life on the line, he supposed he had no choice in the matter. He placed the long end in the corner of his mouth and inhaled gingerly. At Doodle's instruction, he did not immediately exhale. When he did, another fit of coughing followed it. The old elf was right, and though he had to swallow numerous times to choke down what he brought up, it didn't seem as bad as what he'd gone through before.

"Good. It will draw the venom out. We must take care with you now that we do not ourselves become sick from it." Doodle said, settling on his stool again. He placed his drawing book on his knees and took up his graphite. The pencil moved effortlessly across the paper by his expert hand while Clint watched and Doodle maintained their conversation.

"You have fascinating friends. From what they have told, you endured a harrowing two days."

Clint puffed the end of the pipe, coughed, swallowed, but said nothing.

"It is difficult to obtain such loyalties in life. To have another man carry you so long? I do not believe that many entertain kinships of that kind. You should count yourself blessed if you do not already. I can remember only four men in my life who held a similar level of distinction, and none of them would have thought to drag me through a forest on their backs whilst the elaren venom infected my marrow."

"Then keep mine."

Doodle could sense the bitterness with which he spoke. "I much prefer my solitude in this twilight of age."

"Not a bad idea." Clint tried to hand back the pipe again, but Doodle continued to refuse.

"That is yours to finish, and finish it you must. You are too young to end your life on my private settee in the Woodrenkell forest."

Clint rested back in his seat and drew the quilt up over his good shoulder. Swallowing venom and blood was beginning to turn his stomach, just as Doodle warned it would. He didn't like the conversation either. He could feel how close he'd come from losing his life, but so many similar opportunities in his past made him numb to the fact. If he became worked up at every near death scenario, he'd be in the psychiatric ward longer than the hospital, a place he typically spent a considerable amount of time. He'd come to terms with mortality long ago when Loki first came into his life and pulled him inside out. If that had never happened, would Clint even be in the current situation? The most likely answer to that was no.

"How long has he been the king?" Clint asked, trying to keep the conversation away from his difficulties with the others.

"Five, six hundred years? The royal before he had a thousand year reign before he gave up the throne for Rinon's line. Before that was another for a few thousand and beyond that was a queen, and then another king. The first had no heirs of his own, and his wife's soul had already been laid in her clan's home, so he passed the throne to a fellow noble elf and that has laid the foundation of our future ever since. Rinon and Ferheh have no children of their own as yet either, and it is a chance they never shall. Few female elves rear a child."

"Really?"

"We may live a great life, but the opportunity to have young comes as a small window for an elven maid. Often, that time is passed before she discovers a mate."

"It's a little disappointing, isn't it? Have that much of a life and just never share it with anyone but each other." Clint was feeling philosophic as his thoughts drifted back to Natasha and Arrow. He'd known for a long time how the experiments performed on his partner as a child left her unable to ever bear children. In a way, Arrow filled that role between them.

"King Rinon has wolves, doesn't he?" Clint asked aloud. He surprised himself with the question he thought he'd kept private.

"Dire wolves? That is so. Three, four perchance." Doodle placed aside his drawing and turned to the man. Clint's eyes couldn't meet his own. "Why do you ask these questions?"

He felt a tragedy there. A deep, intuitive emotion rose from the man like an invisible aura the elf was especially tuned to feel. Elves were incredibly instinctive creatures. Without Clint saying any more than that, he knew something ailed him that reached further than skin deep. "You have your own dire wolf, I understand, a gift of King Odin?"

"Yes, I… no…" Clint set the pipe down on his knee and tried to steady himself.

Doodle stood from his chair and approached to sit directly beside him. He leaned forward and closed Clint's hand in his own broad fingers. Barton couldn't look at him, but Doodle now understood why.

"What a terrible burden to carry on your shoulders." Doodle told him very quietly. He held very still. "There is nothing that I have experienced in my years that could compare to the loss of such a friend as a dire wolf. They are remarkable beings. I have heard that they hold a place in one's heart that none other may hope to occupy. Losing that, is to lose a piece of oneself. And many have not the power to sustain it. But you regale in that métier, ackarae." _Archer_.

Clint's eyes reddened, though no tears were shed. He refused to admit to himself the reality of his loss. Hearing the first, of surely many condolences coming his way, pained him as much as the wound in his shoulder. He didn't want to acknowledge Doodle's words, let alone even look at him. But he had difficulty resisting. He risked a glance toward the elf.

Doodle held his gaze for a long time before he finally said, "I am so very sorry."

The dam nearly broke. Clint felt his throat close, and knew it wasn't the influence of the elaren doing it. How could this have happened? Why did his own brother take away the one good thing in his life, the only thing to keep him together in the months of being utterly alone? He'd risked so much in the care and upbringing of Arrow. They were friends, unstoppable forces. They communicated in a way no one else could understand, and he never imagined a life without the wolf there. Faced with that reality and the sudden trip to Alfheimr, he had no opportunity to properly process his grief.

"Edṻ pḕditḣam hi sui vellẏn, ne Edhellen?" _May we speak as friends now in Elvish?_

"Náto." _It is so, yes. _Clint replied.

Doodle continued in Elvish, speaking in conspirator tones and dialects he thought the limited language experience of the human could understand. He could see that this confession Clint had made would want to be kept private. Speaking in the uncommon tongue would prevent any listening ears. "Edö pedelhim ele aruthro vṻ grea wi qo f'alir-eno iyu, ētu lethali fere." _You have not spoken to those who are your friends of this, your greatest loss?_

"La." _Yes, you are right._

"Edṻ mel ebӓn . . . elathre . . . me elaň mor'tēa ki tov'ïano lethali." _You resent . . . hold against, these kinsmen, the loss they may have prevented?_

Clint took a moment to understand him. Doodle was right. "La."

"Edṻ treq areh rifoli?" _They do not comprehend the tragedy? (or, you have not spoken of the tragedy?)_

"D`-iston yew." _I have not told them. _

"Edṻ, am m'an thêled?" _Whatever for?_

He shook his head a little. His response began in Elvish, but as he continued on, his basic came out. "D`-duski wre awi ne heli, I haven't had time. I don't want them to know. I blame them for this happening. My brother takes after our father, a drunk child abuser who killed himself and my mother. Barney's always been buried in gambling debts. I bailed him out every time he asked. My own brother murdered Arrow in front of my eyes, and I could do nothing to stop him. If those _friends_ had come sooner, when I first called them, it would never have happened."

Doodle listened to his outburst with patience. He never knew himself the loss of a dire wolf, but he did live in a close communion with the natural worked of Woodrenkell. The living beings of Asgard and Alfheimr both developed trench-like bonds that melded hearts together. Clint most likely blamed himself, though the product of his misplaced aggression fell to the shoulder of his friends instead. Doodle imagined that had it not been for the influence of his ill state, he would have withheld the information for the remainder of his life and shared with no one, even those closest to him. Doodle said no more, asked no further questions of him, but continued to stay by Clint's side until grief eventually overwhelmed him and he fell back into an agitated sleep.

* * *

poor Clint. I mean, its so sad what i've done to him. But i love every second of it.

_Next time: Ge'elaphi's Introduction and Clint's Murder _

PLEASE REVIEW! this next chapter is going to be extra long!


	14. Ge'elaphi's Introduction and Clint's Mur

Oh my goodness, this is a long one. pace yourself!

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_**Chapter 13 –Ge'elaphi's Introduction and Clint's Murder-**_

When Clint decided to force himself to his feet, it was with the understanding that to make such attempt may spell his own death or at the very least his arm. He refused to restrain himself to a sick bed any longer than necessary and, with a sudden urge to move, took his own initiative. Doodle had stepped out of doors to check on those things he tended around his home. Clint took that opportunity to struggle his way out from beneath the furs.

Planning to stand and actually accomplishing the feat became two very different challenges. His joints felt like they were cushioned in finely ground glass. Each one of them screamed of its own accord and ground against the tops and bottoms of his bones. He had almost given up half way, but there were three or four rays of sunshine beaming down the smoked out chimney flume that beaconed him to go out.

There was a strange thing that living in the realms away from home did to a man. Clint had experienced the phenomenon on Asgard first. He'd been taken there quite suddenly one night after Natasha mistakenly shot him in the head. Within a few days not only had he been healed to full functional capacity again, he'd also begun to forget about earth, the Avengers, and everyone he cared about. At first he thought it may be a fluke, an unfortunate side effect of being shot someplace important. But it happened again the second time he found himself on Asgard. The foreignness of it, the sheer beauty of the land, and the ancient customs swept him up in ways he could never fully comprehend. Anyone hailing from Midgard, traveling to another of the Nine Realms, tended to leave everything else behind. They forgot all.

This time, Clint wanted to forget. What was there for him back on earth? More sympathy? More apologies? His murderous brother? He could avoid everything by simply staying away. He could remain on Alfheimr and forget, forget everything. The thought spurred him to his feet. He leaned against the little wicker stool at first with nearly all his weight upon one arm. The other he kept stiffly tucked across his chest. Even thinking about that arm hurt. He couldn't imagine whether he would ever shoot his bow again. He moved through the quaint earthen room and into the outer courtyard of Doodle's hovel.

The woodland pressed back from the immediate doorway of the hut. A green knoll extended, in coats of thickened carpets, to the brook flowing at the foot of the hill. Clint desperately wanted to reach it. He settled for the small bench to the side of the front door. He placed his hand along the wall to steady his walk and slowly dropped to the seat. The sun felt hot and cool at the same time upon his face. He closed his eyes bathe his skin in it.

Tony and Steve must have been exhausted. He felt one or the other move to him continually in the night, as if to assure he still lived. Clint had yet to disappoint. Though he may have been awake at the time, he feigned sleep to avoid the inevitable conversation to come. Speaking with Doodle had somehow lessened the overwhelming pain in his heart.

"Ah, see there. The boy's trying to bring his death by enjoying the light of day. You have not the slightest sense of the frailty of your life or the fact that at any moment you may take a turn and lie dead on my doorstep." Doodle Bygrove complained as he rounded the corner of his home. He held two baskets in either hand with all manner of edible things held within. It seemed other elven houses lay hidden in the woods and he had visited a number of them that morning to gather supplies.

"Mya e'veheen." _Good morrow_, Clint said.

"Yes mya it would be if there did not exist this overwhelming need by Midgardians to find irrefutable trouble for themselves."

He set down his baskets by the front door and leaned over the patient. He analyzed Clint very closely. "You are much too pale. You do not breathe very well and I fear it will take a great deal more than smoking herbs to assist in that. I do assume your bones feel as though they may shatter of their own accord?"

"Or something like it." Clint admitted weakly.

"In time, if you do not find yourself dead, then it too will mend." Without pulling the bandages away, he gingerly prodded the back of Clint's wound. It had begun to rot from front to back, though the boiling water had stopped the progression. In the night some of the skin attempted to heal over the poultice. The elf continued to be concerned that it would never heal properly without Asgardian care. Clint's generally high pain tolerance had significantly waned since the venom took control of him. Even Doodle's light touch sent a gasp from him. He was glad when the elf stopped.

"To be truthful, ackarae, you must travel to Asgard and have this mended properly if you ever hope to continue your vocation. However, tensions being as they are any hopes of that coming to fruition are laid to rest."

"Why's that?"

Doodle and Clint looked up to the doorway where Tony leaned. He'd heard their voices outside. Without bothering to mention his happiness at seeing Clint conscious, or his anger at not being informed, he entered himself to the conversation.

"Has Midgard not been informed of the troubles of the Asgardians? Does Thor Odinson himself not call Midgard his home?"

"He does and the last we heard everything was fine." Tony elaborated. He stole a glance at Clint to try and assess him. He still appeared as sick as the day before Haladarrel found them.

"Well, then Odinson is greatly misinformed. He has abandoned his throne following the death of his mother and the invasion of the . . ." Doodle lost his voice a moment as he considered the reality of it. He shook his head. "The Dark Elves. Since that time our great ally has distanced from us. I cannot recall the last time we have had the Bifrost open. It is believed Odin resents Alfheimr for those departed souls that were once our kin."

"Pointy said something about that. He said they needed Clint here and his job was to get him out of elf land before someone killed him. Does that make any sense?"

Doodle stood, straightening to his high height once more. They noticed he did so only when stress overtook his typical bookish, hunched ways. He considered the words for a time. A heaviness filled his chest as he thought over it. "You say these things and drop a grief into my heart I could not at once understand. But I do see it now and indeed I break over it. You come from the Bifrost? That tells me someone of Asgard has willed you here. Someone with enough influence to see it done. Heimdall has been taken from his post as the watcher and set in irons over his aid of Thor during the dark time. Who stands watch in his stead I do not know. All of Asgard holds the archer in enough regard to allow him as the funeral archer of the resting Queen Frigga. You released her very soul to the stars with your arrow, did you not?"

Clint confirmed the well-known fact. It was an honor when Thor and Odin asked him to participate in the ceremony on Asgard after Frigga's murder. It did strike him as curious how current Doodle was on all the latest gossip for a being who hid in the woods.

"Since that dark time tensions rose. You, their champion, have been sent here and set upon nearly as soon as you step foot into our realm. This stinks of subterfuge and I fear a great deal has gone into your predicament here."

"Someone on Asgard is in league with elves to murder me?" Clint asked. He always thought he led a complicated life, but despite all he had ever endured, this was considerably the worst situation he faced.

Doodle couldn't take the full weight of the news on his feet and instead settled down beside Clint. Tony came through the door, Steve appearing out behind him. Apparently both had been listening to the conversation.

"Elves. Light elves taking lives. I cannot . . . surely I cannot imagine such a thing. The evidence I can no more deny than I could pretend my own hand was unattached." He placed a hand on Clint's knee. "Your life means the very preservation of our people. We are strong, and we are mighty, but we are peaceful. Should Asgard take this set against us there would be nothing we could do to stop it. Indeed, all of Alfheimr would be painted in the blood of kinsmen."

The depth of his news settled in the air around them. Any hopes that the attack from the Southlings was simply a misunderstanding was left to the wind. The reality hit like the blow of Thor's hammer against the captain's shield. As the reverberations coursed through them, the distant brush opened. A figure stumbled from the tangle of trees and vines to drop into the brook. Doodle shot straight to his feet.

"Haladarrel!" He cried.

Clint tried to stand, but his knees gave out the second he moved. He collapsed back with the heaviness of a laden sack. Tony stayed beside him as Steve ran ahead of Doodle.

Hal pulled himself from the water by sheer determination though he got little farther before Steve reached him. Only half a step behind, Doodle assisted in turning the elf over.

Haladarrel panted to gain his wind again. He'd run for so long his body thought he may still be in motion. His tunic was torn where a blade had entered not once, but twice.

"Velu'ha lithe` me ilu. Velu'ha." Haladarrel whispered as Doodle tore at his clothes. "Edhe. Soutu Hele edhe."

"What's he saying?" Steve asked.

"He says elves have done this. He led them away but the ones of the south have done this! Elves! Edhe!" Doodle shook his head vehemently, trying to fathom it all. "Inside, get him inside!"

Steve helped Bywater to his feet. Once upright again the elf could manage well on his own, though the soldier remained beside him should he take another turn. Clint tried standing again so he may follow them into the house, but his joints forced him back.

Tony kept him down and tried to distract him with conversation. "Nothing in there is going to change with you in the room. You shouldn't be walking. How did you even get out here?"

"I walked."

"Why am I not surprised? You know, if this was Nazi Germany, or Pepper's birthday party I would aid you in any escape with money and a helicopter. Walking ten feet when you came real close to dying on us, I'm not going to agree to."

"I always come close to dying."

"This was different." Tony said sternly.

"You say that each time. Just lay off. This is my life and so far the few times I've actually needed you in it, you haven't been there. So you know what, Stark? Get out of my life." Clint said the words with less force than before. Either he was exhausted, or his views on his friends were slowly changing for the better. What Tony did know, was the words he spoke now rang surprisingly familiar to those he spoke during their fake falling out. Back then Stark wondered whether or not Clint meant any of his accusations. Listening to this, it was hard to tell.

Despite Tony's protest Clint forced himself up. He grinned and bore what his body cursed at him. Clint headed inside on his own power. The energy it took him to go back inside was monumental. The moment he came within dropping distance of the couch he nearly fell right over into it. A slight movement out of the corner of his eye let him know Tony came in right behind him. Most likely he anticipated Clint not making it. To prove he could, the archer sucked up the pain and remained upright until he slowly relaxed back into his settee. He pulled the thickest fur over his legs and watched Haladarrel, Doodle, and Steve in front of the mantel.

Haladarrel eyed the archer as Doodle and Steve worked to strip him of his tunic. He considered his journey back and how in the Nine Realms he was going to get Clint Barton off of Alfheimr. Ge'elaphi was not going to make things easy on them. Indeed, he would result to burning down all of Woodrenkell before he would allow Barton to escape with his life. The fire in his eyes Haladarrel would never forget.

:(:):(:):

_He knew leaving the others behind was not the brightest plan he'd ever conjured but he must do something before they were found out. This was the only way he could think to get them out, give them a head start, and let Barton have a fighting chance at his own survival. His duty was to his king and he would shed his very life in the quest of completing his duty._

_Ge'elaphi was not far behind them. It took him less than a league to meet the first of the faralir outriders. Even in this, the densest of the forest paths, the Southlings had managed to roam and hunt. The great cats approached with the unreserved madness of their Southling riders. The once fantastic antlers fixed over their skulls had been sawed to off to their bases, allowing the cats better clearance in the wood. It defaced the very souls of those great cats and truly it pierced Haladarrel's heart to see them in such states. _

_These Southlings resembled the wild one which had surrendered himself to Rinon. Their prized elven locks were hacked back near their skulls in intricate arrays of mohawks or twisted individual dreads. War paint and permanent ink marred their faces from one ear to the next and coated their bare chests and arms in heavy designs. They would have been beautiful if they did not belong to the bodies of traitors and murderers. _

_"Who are you, outrider?" They demanded of him in a mix of edhellan, basic, and a peculiar sharp elvish he didn't recognize._

_"Haladarrel Bywater. The steward of Inner Glencove and a rider for Longfeather Brookin of Skydale." He tried to remain aloof in their presence, though curious as any elf should be when confronted by such a sight as they were. "And what on Alfheimr are you?"_

_"Greyback of the new order." One elf hissed at him. _

_Hal nodded once. "Ah."_

_"Why are you in these woods?"_

_"I am an outrider. Why would I not ride in Woodrenkell?" _

_"What purpose do you ride for, low elf?" Greyback encouraged his faralir closer. The animal sniffed at Haladarrel's clothes and its vertical pupils converged together. She could smell the Midgardian blood on him, he realized. _

_"What for do you call me low? Merely because I lost my mount? That is not all too fair I think." Haladarrel reached a confidant hand out to the enslaved faralir and pressed his fingers into the cat's fur. He willed his message to be read through the animal's eyes. _Be silent. Save us all.

_"You hold allegiance to that defacement on Lakeheed's thrown." _

_"I am an outrider, we are not allowed to have thoughts of allegiance. We merely do as instructed." Haladarrel dipped his head, the faralir blinked in understanding and they parted from each other. "And who is it you ride for on such brandished faralirs as these? And whatever happened to your face?"_

_"I should gut you for such talk!" Greyback cried. One of the others sneered toward Haladarrel, baring filed down teeth._

_"Gut me? Well that would be a surely fancy talk. What elf harms another? Come now, who is it you hail from?"_

_"Ge'elaphi."_

_"That great of the Southlings? You've come a long way from there. Why ever would you stop in Woodrenkell? I imagine there are much fairer clan lands North in Skydale, or even Blueskin."_

_"Because we are on a hun—"_

_"Sh-leki be ephi!" Greyback snarled at his fellow rider in a language Haladarrel could not comprehend. He understood their meaning, however. It made no sense to share the fact that they hunted a Midgardian with an elf they did not know. _

_The rally horn blew, splitting the air. Ge'elaphi was not far behind them. _

_"Is that him?" Haladarrel asked politely. "Do you think he would give a commission to another outrider in this hunt of yours? I am not terribly handy in Woodrenkell, but I have bountiful knowledge of Skydale and Blueskin both."_

_The outriders considered his proposal. It was all Haladarrel needed to get close to the leader of the Southling clans._

_:(:):(:):_

_Ge'elaphi was a larger elf, nearing eight feet in height with a body frame as thick as an oak limb. He had been banished to the Southling lands for nearly three thousand years after an attempt was made to seize the throne from the supporters of King Agliṻn in a time of Ge'elaphi's youth. After his years of penance were satisfied, he was invited to return to the mainland elven clans and restart anew under the monarchy of Queen Laieh, but that opportunity was refused and he remained ever since in the southern lands. Haladarrel had been south of the ocean a number of times on one emissary mission or another but rarely went into the deep lands where Ge'elaphi stayed. Meeting him now, Haladarrel attempted to remain the same detached manner he had prior. After all, no normal elf would have come to Ge'elaphi with the same knowledge Haladarrel possessed. A normal elf would not fear for his body, or his life. They would have a childlike trust in their own safety. In the outrider, such notions had forever been crushed. _

_"Haladarrel Bywater?" the Southling leader asked._

_ "Haladarrel if you would."_

_"A Glencovian clan?"_

_"I prefer to believe I am an elf of all parts of Alfheimr."_

_Ge'elaphi considered that opinion as he looked Hal up and down. While he took his time to assess this potential help, Haladarrel had his first look at who they were up against. The results were far greater than he could have imagined. Ge'elaphi had a considerable amount of archers, both on the ground and in the trees. More than thirty faralirs prowled around the perimeter of the walking army, all of them damaged in the same sad ways to create a sleeker animal. There were weapons, many of them, and manpower. Worse than all of those, there was a charismatic leader._

_"Do you know what we plan here?" Ge'elaphi asked._

_Hal looked around. "You have a great many elves with you. What you plan I cannot guess."_

_"These are my children." Ge'elaphi corrected. _

_Haladarrel could not hide the surprise on his face. He looked at them all again. All those elves, many of them young, all of them younger than their leader. No families. No mothers, nothing but those who resembled Ge'elaphi. The idea was almost as perverse as attempting to murder the king. Ge'elaphi had been living in his banishment for three thousand years. To have so many elven children claiming his parentage meant he must have had thousands of lovers, perhaps tens of thousands. Never had so many elven women been left in the South Lands. Haldarrel had no doubt that to produce such numbers, Ge'elaphi must have taken his own daughters into his bed. _

_The Wild Southling watched as the cogs in Haladarrel's brain turned to uncover the depths of what he witnessed. _

_"We are all family here." Ge'elaphi stated. "And as a family we hunt. We hunt for our future which lies in the soul of a Midgardian. If you are a worthy elf, you will direct us to his location. As rider you know whether someone has crossed your path. Especially a man in the second night of elaren."_

_"Elaren? Nasty business that." Hal pointed down the way he'd come and subsequently in the exact direction where Clint and the others retreated. "Three men in that direction were walking. From the screams of the one I have no doubt it could be the venom you speak or an unfortunate run-in with a drusk or tik tik."_

_Ge'elaphi signaled to a few of the faralir riders who took off in the direction Hal indicated. Haladarrel turned slightly, watching them go, knowing that two leagues away a trap waited along the road that would surely take their lives. Hal expected the possibility of men getting passed him. It pained him to think he may shed elven blood himself, but to save his people he must protect their path._

_But that was not all. Meeting Ge'elaphi set something very firmly in his have any hope of escaping these elves, Haladarrel had to do something he never thought he would. When he turned back to the leader he had a single plan on his mind, and a sole use for the dagger he palmed in his hand._

_Ge'elaphi knew his plan before Haladarrel could execute it. He was ready first, had no hesitation, and struck forward with a blade. Haladarrel gasped at the shock of it. He held the wound as Ge'elaphi pulled back and rammed into him once again. With the knife remaining in Ge'elaphi's bloodied hand, Hal sank to the forest floor. The leader stood above him, wiping his blood off on his own sleeve like crimson stripes._

_"I trust no one beside my own. You have not been enlightened to the Dark Elven ways and cannot understand what we hope to achieve. I am releasing you, saving you, from what is yet to come." He leaned down, wrapped his large hand around Haladarrel's throat and drew the elf up to his face. "I smell the lies on you like the stink of Midgard's man. I will kill him and in doing so save my children from the cruelty of this rule. Live and see this forest be bathed in the baptism of fire. Long live Malekith."_

:(:):(:):

The very scent of Ge'elaphi left a taste of bitterness in Haladarrel's mouth. He knew that despite slowing the troop down, he did not stop them indefinitely. Assuming Haladarrel lied to him, the entire wave of elven warriors spread in the opposite direction. The two outriders Haladarrel laid traps for, he found dead as he assumed they would be, along the road. He was fortunate Ge'elaphi had only wanted to wound him and not kill him.

"You should not be walking." Haladarrel pointed out as Clint passed by him.

"So I've been told." Clint said.

"It has been my commission to keep you alive. It is difficult to fulfill if you die from neglecting to stop."

"Yeah, you tell him, Legolas." Tony said, folding his arms.

Doodle's ears pricked upward. "What do you know of that elf? Legolas has been a nomad on the Blueskin Mountains since the last Midgardian left."

"What? Seriously?"

Haladarrel shrugged one shoulder. His chest was bare and Doodle stopped to see the many slanted stab wounds along his side. "Legolas was an outrider for the former king. He met the Midgardian, Mr. Tookin, in Alevenale of Skyhill. When the Midgardian left again, he returned to the mountains and has not come down in many years."

"Mr. Tookin? Don't you mean Tolkien? J.R. Tolkien?" Steve asked, moving for Doodle to look.

"Tolkien is an elvish word not appropriate for conversation, if you understand my meaning. He was known then as Tookin, which means "The Inquisitive". He stayed in the tree Faramir. Took quite a liking to its name, and only ventured out to follow elves around and speak of goblins. You know of Tookin?"

"He's one of the most famous authors in Midgard." Steve said. He grinned a little. "Somehow I'm not at all surprised he was here. Something had to give him all those story ideas."

"I am glad he found what he hoped to. The man was here endlessly torturing me with his questions and need for drawings or runes, or heavens know what else." Doodle said, continuing his inspection.

The revelation settled over the group for a time as Doodle poked and prodded. He went away to his kitchen for a basin of water and returned to set it down, then he went back to find some cloth in the cupboard, and returned again. He continued the back and forth, back and forth, waiting to get all he needed in proper lines. He was not the most neat or organized elf they had ever encountered, but seeing Haladarrel in such a state gave him even more distress than seeing Clint on his doorstep.

"Will I live?" Haladarrel asked. He was not particularly worried about meeting his death.

"You are lucky you are not a man and that you are an elf. I believe you will heal. Rest yourself for a time. How long have you run?"

"I hardly know."

"I am trying to forget your words . . ." Doodle, having wrapped the wound stood up and paced away from him. Haladarrel's life was not in danger, much to his happiness, but that did not make the impact of what this attempt on his life meant. "Elves attacking elves. What has our world come to? Such hasn't been born into this land since the end of the dark time. This, is . . ."

"It's a problem. You're lucky they didn't actually gut you. We warned you against going back." Tony said.

"No elf has laid a hand on another since the dark days when the elven clans were split in half!" Doodle shouted. Everyone turned to him, shocked by his outburst. The normally complacent, bookish elf had become red about his face as he considered all that had happened. Surprised at his own aggression, he tugged the bottom of his tunic and straightened again. Without excusing himself, he went out of the door and pulled the oak closed behind him.

Steve threw Tony a dirty glance. "We don't mean to offend. Stark's a jerk. Sometimes he can't keep that in like a normal person."

Tony resisted throwing the potato-like tuber off the table on his right into the back of Steve's head. He held it in his hand in case he should change his mind.

"He knows you mean no ill. But he is correct. It has been thousands of years since the expulsion of the dark elves by our once great king. I have never in my years known an elf to raise his hand against another. In the last two days, I have not seen only that, but a Southling take a venom blade to the very flesh of our king. " Hal replied.

"Is he all right?" Clint asked hurriedly. His attempt at displaying his ease slowly crumbled to nothing. After his walk outside and then back in, his entire body felt like rebelling against him. His joints felt as if they might tear apart. His shoulder blazed like a poker of dragon fire had been rammed through him.

Hal noticed this. "We should not speak of this in front of you. Not until you are well."

"Too late for that!" Clint exclaimed. He regretted it. The force it took to shout shortened his breath. He coughed once but that was all it took to be suddenly seized in a fit he couldn't escape.

"Tony, hold him up!" Steve ordered. He grabbed a cloth off the table and handed it to Clint. As the archer coughed, his body ground against the slivers of glass in his joints. His shoulder jockeyed across the dragon fire and try as he might he couldn't stop the pain. He coughed into his hand, then the cloth, spewing blood from his heavy lungs. He tried to inhale as the men instructed him, but as he did so the mix of phlegm and red caught in his throat. He hacked against it until, unable to breathe, he began to panic. Like his head rising above water after a deep dive, oxygen flooded to the depths of his lungs. He felt dizzy from it and instead of grasping at it the way he would tug at a life line, his next breath came slow, calculated, and steady. Beside him elven words found their way into his ear. The more he breathed the clearer they became until Clint, aware again, looked over at Haladarrel.

The elf was not happy. "That was very close."

"I feel fine." Clint blatantly lied. He knew he wasn't fooling anyone but he found it difficult not to be a hard patient to deal with. The very notion was ingrained on his bones.

"Either you rest or my kin will force you to rest." Haladarrel continued to warn him in a heavy tone. Clint imagined when the outrider agreed to rescue the human from the clutches of death he had no idea how hard it would be for Clint not to sabotage his work.

Hal stood again and indicated that the others should move into the writing nook beside the window. It remained within eye shot, but for Clint's health, outside of his capacity to hear. They still had many things to discuss in light of their coming push for the coastline. What remained to be seen was how they would attempt to get to the king's clan lands from there. They could stick along the coast, skirting south and then west along the banks of the ocean and Woodrenkell before crossing the Earthenden line. That would take perhaps three days journey on foot. There was a chance they could encounter another scouting party, one with riders, which may take Clint and the others onward at a faster pace. Being in the open air also gave Stark an opportunity to fly ahead of them and get support from the king's camp though Haladarrel discouraged him from taking Barton on another aerial journey.

Another option was to charter a vessel for the barrier islands. Haladarrel knew the area well, having been raised there, and could find them faster travel to the coast on the backs of eagles or hawks. Mentioning it, however, came with the same notion that Clint should be kept from such heavy travel if at all possible. Time became their enemy on all sides. Two days of travel through Woodrenkell meant Ge'elaphi's forces had just as much of a chance at finding them as their allies. If they took to the water and the Southlings had great flying creatures of their own, they were sitting ducks.

Barton watched as they moved their hands and strategized together without him. He should have been part of it. He wished they hadn't gone, or at least hoped he had the strength to get up and follow them around, demanding inclusion. He didn't want to be honest with himself and admit how much the last attack scared him. There were times, many times, where he thought he might die. Each time had been quick, a bullet, a knife, an assailant standing before him with Clint on two feet meeting death face-to-face. This was different. Losing his life to something flowing through his veins, drowning on lungs full of his own blood after his cure had been found was not the way to go.

He was still exhausted. Knowing full well the others wouldn't be including him again anytime soon, he decided his only recourse was to either continue staring at them or to try and get some sleep again. Clint had only just considered it as his mind faded out of its own accord.

While the archer settled back and let his mind go free, Doodle reappeared from the garden with his forgotten baskets. He noticed at once the little change in the room. He had a home full of injured, exhausted, and beaten men and elves. The elder elf would have been happier had they all decided to take the next three days and do little more than sit quietly, speak, and dine but with the late events he knew the possibility was small. So much was left to be done and they had precious little time.

He set his baskets in the kitchen and removed the few loaves of bread and other oddities the neighboring elves donated. Everyone living on this edge of Woodrenkell spent most of their time in solitude but maintained their heritage of hospitality when it was required. Doodle had little to offer his guests from his own pantry so having additions from others made him at least feel the part of a proper host.

He looked over to Clint on the settee and noticed the man still hadn't moved. He was gazing lazily toward the others, perhaps hoping to know what they were doing. Doodle approached from behind with his glass of teglan tea to coax him into possibly eating. Naturally that step was to follow very soon if he continued to improve. The venom would progress, move from his chest to his belly where it had the chance of being expelled. He would be all the better for if they could only support his health until then.

"Ackarae?" He placed a hand on the archer's good shoulder. To his surprise, Clint did not move. His eyes, distant in their blue fields, stared forward to nothing. Doodle dropped his glass and the fragile pieces shattered across the floor tiles. Haladarrel and the others jumped from their seats.

"He has died!" Doodle cried.

* * *

Ge'elaphi's screwed up. I loved making someone you can really rally against. Oh Haladarrel! Never again can he trust others as he once did. To actually plan to take other's lives? ;_; And Of course Clint, will he survive? What will happen? Stay tuned!

_Next time: Breath to Live, Live to Bleed_

this next chapter is going to BLOW YOUR MIND!


	15. Breathe to Live, Live to Bleed

May your dreams begin to come true!

* * *

Chapter 14 –Breathe to Live, Live to Bleed—

"My kin, help him!" Doodle cried.

"He stopped breathing!" Steve said.

"I warned him to stop! This man has killed himself yet!" Haladarrel stormed over with the words on his lips.

Tony yanked the table away and, between Steve and Haladarrel, they laid Clint flat on the floor. Steve searched for a pulse along the thin skin at Clint's neck. He felt one, but just hardly. Haladarrel settled into his own role, summoning up elven words to inspire the air into Clint's chest and out again in long, slow succession. The man's eyes stared out of them through a dull haze. Doodle wasn't far from wrong in assuming Clint was indeed dead.

"Can you save him?" Steve asked.

"He is very bad. Very bad." Doodle whispered above him. "I knew he pushed too much. This cannot be well. A man could not recover this, no man may recover this."

Haladarrel was too distracted by trying to keep Clint alive to bother with conversation. Already, Clint's skin grew cold. It stiffened like a near-dead animal whose heart had not caught up with the inevitable end to come. Lying on the floor with the elf hovering over him, forcing air in and out of his lungs, it was not hard to imagine that the archer had at last succumbed to his injuries.

Doodle, try as he might to keep his fears within, could no longer suppress them. "Nothing can save him. Asgard has sent him. Someone there wished him slaughtered, and it is only Asgardian healing that may save him now. There is no rescuing him, nothing to be done. All of Alfheimr is lost!" He wrung his hands together as he hovered over the dying Barton. His mind burst with all those things they wished to prevent but didn't. Nothing to be done. No way to save him. All of Alfheimr would burn in the Asgardian's wrath. Everything he loved, everyone he loved, would be destroyed in the coming war.

"No." Tony said, too shocked to move any closer.

"Tony?" Steve shot a glance over his shoulder to the man. What he saw was something he had not seen in over a year. Stark was going into a panic attack. "Tony, don't do that! Hang on, it's going to be fine! They're going to save him. He's not dead yet."

Stark had already descended down his internal staircase, the one that led to where he locked his emotions, a place he could not easily reach. He hadn't had a panic attack in so long he failed to recognize the symptoms. Instantly, he assumed that he must be dying. Clint's illness must be catching. Tony had to have been infected somehow, unbeknownst to himself. He placed a hand over his chest and began to gasp and shake as the well of terror clamped across his throat. His legs felt weak under him, and they threatened to bring him right down.

"Tony, don't listen to that!" Steve begged as the Elven healing words filled the air. Steve was torn instantly. Beside him, Clint struggled for his very life, and across from him, Stark may give himself a coronary. At first he couldn't decide which way to turn, but in the end, logic won him over. There was nothing he could do for Clint beside give Haladarrel and Doodle enough room to work. So he backed away and went over to Stark. Steve knew not to touch the man, not unless he wanted to have a fight on his hands. He tried to remember how Clint liked to handle Tony in situations like this. Pepper and Clint always got the man to calm down better than anyone else could. The first course of action was to get Tony back into his Iron Man suit if he could.

"He's dead. He's actually dead. He's not coming back. There's no reset, he's just dead. They're making a corpse breathe. He's dead." Tony's voice wasn't pitched or frantic. Like a mathematician repeating out the procession of Pi, he said the words as if they'd been set in stone. The longer he repeated them, the more he came to terms with their new reality.

"I felt his pulse, Tony, he isn't dead." Steve told him. He crouched in front of Stark who'd slid down the wall with his back. "He's just having trouble breathing. He's going to be OK."

"No, he's not. Because he's dead." Tony replied logically. His veins pulsed along his neck and arms. Steve estimated his heart rate neared two hundred.

"He's not. They're saving him, remember? When has he ever died on us? When did we ever lose him?"

Tony looked at him, lucid in the midst of his anxiety. "We lost him the minute I let him go."

"That wasn't your fault. We all agreed to let him—"

Steve's voice in his ear faded to a dull roar as Tony went back to that day; the day Clint walked out on them, never to come back. Stark had done everything he could not to be around. He didn't want to be in the center of the staged fight, but that was how Clint planned it and wanted it. HYDRA may not believe a falling out with Steve, Bruce, or the others. Natasha would have stopped him, hurt him, broke something. Tony would have let him go. What did that say about him? That despite how much he cared about someone, if they disappointed him enough he'd just give up? Let them leave? Never try to get them back? Is that why Clint picked the fight with him, turned his back on him, and never turned around?

"I hate you." Clint told him. Those three words holding all the weight of the Nine Realms in them. They lay on Stark's shoulder like Earth rested on Atlas'. Try as he might, he couldn't shake it off. Clint had never thrown those words at him. At anyone, so far as Tony knew. What had he done?

"The few times I needed you, you haven't been there . . . get out of my life . . . If Captain America wasn't there, would you have even come to find me. . . Where were you when I needed you . . . We were friends. . . I hate you."

Old accusations mixed with new, and Tony was left in the husk of it all. Each phrase hit him like a punch in the gut. It cut deep, ripped open old wounds, and spilled the emotions he kept tightly wrapped. Clint was going to die without him ever making up these failings to him. He was going to suffer the cruelest death one could muster, and Tony blamed himself for it. He should have forced Clint to rest; should have stood his ground and fought till the death to keep the army on their heels back. He should have made it up to him, shouldn't have let him leave the Tower at all.

"We killed him, Steve." Tony said as if it were the only possible outcome. "This is on us. We pushed him. We killed him."

"He's not going to die. Don't give up on him yet." Steve pleaded desperately with him. If he could convince Tony, could he convince himself? Behind them, the only one of any real confidence, Haladarrel, continued to fill the air in Elven whispers.

"Muri-pen me ali. Muli-a po. Bu ne li kinalgue." Haladarrel breathed, the cooling body's chest expanded with the influx of air forced into him, and relaxed as the air eased out on its own. Still, Clint's glazed eyes focused on nothing.

"A bleed within his skull perhaps. Behind where our eyes can see. How could an Elf do this? Elaren venom. A horrid death. I should have done more. This will ruin Alfheimr. Asgard's emissaries will destroy us in smoke and blood. Our children will never see peace." Doodle bemoaned as he held on to Clint's head with either hand. Thick droplets formed in his eyes as his head pressed against the archer. "I have failed you. In your grief I, have failed you. Forgive me, I should have counseled you."

Those words Steve clung to. Tony forgotten, Steve leaned toward them. "Grief? Counsel? He spoke to you, didn't he?"

Doodle remained poised over Clint's face, but nodded very little.

"What did he tell you? Please, I need to know. Please."

Doodle continued to shake his head. "What does it matter when all is lost?"

"Nai! To'vu al agluni! If I lose my focus, this man will die." Haladarrel worked hard to block them out, but with the overwhelming stress of his recent encounter he could not. With a hand, he brushed Doodle from his place and returned to spinning elven whispers, breathing in, breathing out, waiting, and repeating. Clint's heart still beat, which meant there was at least some fight remaining in him. It pained Haladarrel to know that Doodle may understand the depths of the archer's resignation on life and chose not to share such knowledge. That was a matter for another time. Doodle removed himself by standing. He tugged at his braids, a sign of distress, with one hand while the other rubbed the bridge of his nose to dislodge the tears.

Steve crouched down at Clint's feet and held a tentative hand on the man's leg. He must hold him, feel him. If there was some way he could take a piece of himself and place it into the archer, he would. If there was some way for him to take his own lungs and give them to Clint to breathe with, he would. It was then he noticed something he did not before.

"He's swollen." Steve said.

Haladarrel looked over to where the soldier crawled forward and indicated. Clint had lost weight, a considerable amount, since leaving the Tower. But now, that flat line of muscles that comprised his stomach had distorted. They ballooned up slightly.

"Bleeding." Haladarrel said. "Bygrove, bandages. Long ones! We must wrap him. Stop the flow."

"What does it mean?"

"It's progressing. The venom moving out." Haladarrel pressed the air into Clint's lungs again and grabbed the wraps Doodle rushed to him with. He handed them to Steve. "Make them tight. As tight as you can."

Haladarrel picked Clint up by the shoulders and held him at an angle so Steve could get beneath him. Still the elf whispered, spinning elven songs that may see their friend's survival yet.

"It draws from him. I made him smoke in the night. It must have worked. The venom drew out of his lungs as he coughed and he swallowed it down again." Doodle said, pacing behind the wicker settee. "It has hit him in the second wave. Gone to his belly where it hopes to hide and kill him. Stop the bleeding, he may yet survive."

"If it is in the second wave we may have a chance to get it out." Haladarrel agreed.

Steve interrupted them with and incredulous air. "This is a good thing? That he stopped breathing and he's bleeding internally?"

Haladarrel nodded. "Wrap tighter even. This is a last attempt to save him. You have your strength, you must use it."

"I'll break him in half if I do." Steve told him. He threw a look over his shoulder. "Tony, get over here! You want him to live, then I need you right now!"

It wasn't logical. Nothing they did should work. This was like sticking a Band-Aid on the Nile River Delta to stop its flow. But if he gave up, would he ever forgive himself for it? Would anyone? Pulling himself out of the blinding haze of panic, Tony pushed forward. He took the cloth from Steve's hands and wrapped it himself. He had increasing experience with making field dressings over the years. This was the first time he had to stop such a severe bleed in a friend. This was their Hail Mary, their touchdown in the final two seconds. If he didn't try, he could never look the others in the face again and claim to have done everything to save Clint.

With collective breaths held, they waited in the silence of the morning forest glen and watched as Haladarrel continued to act as Clint's ventilator. The archer's heart had yet to give up, so Haladarrel didn't either. Like a trance, he spun the air words, speaking to the wind itself in the way only barrier island elves could.

"He blinked!" Steve shouted.

Everyone leaned in, looked, waited.

"He did. I know it." Steve continued to convince them.

Clint's still lids suddenly, slowly, lowered. They paused for a moment and opened halfway again. Seized with the possibility that he may actually recover, Tony held his breath. Again, Clint's eyes closed, but this time they stayed there. His head moved slightly in Haladarrel's grasp as if turning away from them.

"Haladarrel, you stopped whispering." Steve pointed out.

Haladarrel seemed surprised himself. Clint was breathing on his own, long deep breaths that he had not been able to manage before. They sounded drier, without the thick, moist, heaviness that took him over before. He was improving.

Haladarrel looked very sternly at the others. "We must raise him up, support his back. Help me do this. Are his binds tight enough?"

"Like an elephant in a corset." Tony affirmed steadfastly. He stepped over Clint's legs and crouched on the same side with Steve and Haladarrel. Doodle grabbed the furs from the settee to clear them a space, and folded one on the arm rest to support Clint in an upright position. At Haladarrel's direction, Steve, Tony, and he lifted as one, and Clint was returned to the chair. They paused over him. His eyes remained closed, he still breathed, and he seemed settled into sleep.

A collective wave of relief mixed with the last dregs of adrenaline and fear clinging against them. Wherever they were, the men dropped to sit on what made itself available. From the table, to the chair, to the floor. Each allowed their shaking legs to collapse from beneath them as they sat in a ring and watched the man sleep.

"That may be the worst we see. The venom enters and draws blood into lungs. If a victim is able to heal, if he moves past it, inevitably the venom is swallowed to the stomach. He will bleed there, but with hope, pressure, and time, he may recover." Haladarrel told them. "Passing this, he may recover."

"He will recover." Steve said with his unending optimism.

"The chances have—"

Steve set his hand on Haladarrel's shoulder and stopped the logical elf from over thinking the moment. "He will."

"I confess this is all just so much to take in." Doodle mentioned, shaking his head still.

That simple phrase was enough to bring back the almost-started argument Steve had left a moment ago. He still had difficulty comprehending the depths of Bygrove's words, and he was not about to just let the comments go without probing them further.

"Tell me again what Clint decided to share with you last night while we were sleeping." Steve demanded.

At that, Bygrove's overwhelming exhaustion over the events suddenly fell away. He sprang back to his feet and rushed to his unpacked items in the kitchen. "Nothing. Nothing of terrible importance."

"There's no way you are going to convince me that's true." Steve stood and followed him.

"It was a confession made unknowingly, and a private one at that." Doodle explained as if that would be enough.

"What did he say?" Tony demanded also.

Doodle implored for aid from his fellow elf in elvish, but even Haladarrel held his hands out before sweeping the left sharply to the side. Obviously, he did not plan to help Doodle out of this predicament. He held a hand against the knife wounds in his side, as if they would be excuse enough for his exemption from the argument.

"Look, Spock," Tony stood and approached him, nearly shoving his way straight through Steve. "our friend has been gone for the past seven months. I don't know what that means to you, but it's a hell of a lot of time where I come from. He made me propose to my future wife. He stepped in front of bullets for me and the rest of our team. He is my brother. My brother thinks I am the enemy, and I can't understand what happened to him in that time to make him think that. You do."

Doodle's features softened at this desperate plea. "Loss can blind a man."

"Loss?" Steve glanced down at Clint's body.

"What loss? Natasha's fine, she's at the Tower. I spoke to her before we left!" Tony looked to the Captain. "Bruce, Pepper, they were all safe. We were with Clint so he knew we were alive. Phil? Could have - "

Steve leaned down, noticing something he'd totally discounted before. It was so common a sight he'd ignored it at first. But slowly, things fell into place. He had seen Clint tugging at his pant leg. He saw him pull off the little tufts of hair and let the wind catch them. Tufts of hair.

"Cap?" Tony asked when Steve paled.

"Oh my God." Steve shuttered. He grabbed the back of the couch. This was more than he could have imagined. No wonder Clint hated them. No wonder he blamed them. Everything made perfect sense now.

"Steve!"

"His pants." The captain muttered, trying to organize his thoughts. He searched back in his memory of the mountain side, trying to pick out an extra body in the snow he might have missed initially. Six agents. Clint was crouching down on his knees. There was a pool of blood in front of him, but no body. Steve had hauled Clint up, terrified the blood belonged to the archer, but he found nothing amiss with him.

Arrow. The blood must have belonged to Arrow!

"So he's wearing pants, what does that have to do with - "

Steve had to walk away. He couldn't believe how hard he failed. He didn't even ask about Arrow. Didn't even think about the wolf, Clint's most trusted companion, at all. Everything had happened so fast. Of course Clint took the wolf to the mountains with him. Surrounded by agents he had not ability to trust, he needed back up. That's why he didn't call the Avengers in. He had all the help he could use.

Tony leaned over the back of the settee and tried to see what Steve found. So frantic was his search, encompassing pockets, belt loops, even his pant cuffs, he too missed the most obvious of all the signs: the dog hair.

"It's Arrow." Steve finally told him.

Tony's hands stilled. His entire body seized.

"They killed him. Clint must have been ambushed. He called us for help, he needed us to get there. They killed Arrow right in front of him. That blood in the snow, that must have been from Arrow. It makes sense."

Tony's shoulders came together as he tried to hold himself upright. He meant every word he said. Clint was like a brother to him. Arrow was one step further in their relationship as family. Animals were innocent, undyingly loyal, and more than all those traits was Arrow. He and Clint were inseparable. The two had a bond that only death could break, and after losing his hearing, Arrow improved his very sense of self-worth. The wolf didn't judge him. It never told him he couldn't do something. The dog even went to the hospital with him for his auricular implant surgery and slept in Clint's arms as he woke up. He kept Clint out of traffic, woke him in the morning when his hearing aids weren't on, and for the seven months of being out of the Avenger's care, the wolf was right there with him every single day.

Tony hadn't moved the dog food bowls in the kitchen, or his lab, since Arrow left. He knew one day the wolf was coming back, and to put everything away seemed wrong. There was no reason to keep them now. Though the wolf never bonded to him, not like it did with Clint, Tony felt a piece of his heart shred as if the removed shrapnel had been stuck back in. No doubt Steve felt it too.

"Cap." He managed to say after a long while of unsettling emotions.

"I don't know what we are going to do." Steve told him, honestly, unabashedly. For the first time in his life, Steve Rogers had no plan.

In the distance, the blare of a kyalya horn burst through the quiet. As the men settled in with the weight of their discovery, the march of death approached from the west. And soon, it would be upon them.

* * *

Things to come! Oh my gosh! Ge'elaphi's forces approaching, Clint may be recover, and now...they know! stay tuned!

_Next time: Letters, Betrayal, and Performance Anxiety_

_please review!_


	16. Letters, Betrayal, and Performance Anxie

Get the tissues ready, I'm just about to sucker punch you...again...

the symbols "~ ~" denotes speech made through sign language

* * *

**Chapter 15 –Letters, Betrayal, and Performance Anxiety—**

The room was dark and quiet. As he forced his eyes to open, Clint saw Tony's face first. He sat on the settee beside Clint. He'd taken Barton's legs and sat them on his lap, with the blankets spread over the both of them. Whether he knew he was doing it or not, Stark's left hand stroked the outside of the soft fur and Clint's knee hidden beneath. It was so uncharacteristic, that for a time Clint could only watch him before he could find a way to speak.

He felt sick to his stomach. A churning lead wad sat there beneath what felt like one massive rubber band. He gingerly touched his abdomen with one hand to find a strange new material wedged against his skin like a vice. Though it wasn't comfortable, Clint did feel better. He took a tentative deep breath, and sure enough he didn't end in a cough.

"Tony?" he asked, weakly. He noticed at once that he couldn't hear his own voice. Someone must have taken out his hearing aids.

Stark turned to him. He looked exhausted. Deep pockets of purple and blue extended beneath his eyelids to display just how much time he'd spent worrying. Seeing Clint awake and talking visibly changed him. The hand he used to pat the blanket squeezed Clint's knee. He used sign language to speak to him, "~Are you ok?~"

Clint lifted his left hand some and rotated the palm left then right. "~Not sure.~"

Tony put a finger to his lips, then pulled it away to indicate the room. "~Need to be quiet. They're outside.~"

"~Who?~"

Tony had no standardized sign to indicate the word Southlings, or dark elves, or even the evil leader Ge'elaphi. So he put one hand to his ear and indicated an elongation. Then he gave himself fangs. He was nothing if not clever. The effect out of Tony Stark, after all Clint had been through, actually made him smile, if only briefly. To Stark, seeing a smile on Clint's face could have killed him. There were things he need to say, things he had to say, now that Clint was awake. But with their enemies only thin walls away, he knew he couldn't trust his voice to explain it all. He'd taken that contingency in mind when he sat down with Doodle's paper and charcoals to write his first hand-written letter since the third grade. He picked it up off the small table and handed the page to Clint.

"~Read~"

Clint looked at the paper, concerned about what could possibly be written on it. He took it, and set it on his chest for a moment. "~What's going on?~"

Tony used both hands to sign, trying to keep his movements as clear and precise as possible. "~We're surrounded, but we have a plan. I took out your receivers because you can't afford to get worked up. You are getting better. Read the note.~"

Clint felt that if he read anything while this tired, he was liable to fall asleep mid-sentence. But he tried anyway. He expected it to detail how much of an idiot he was for pushing himself nearly to death, and planned to skim over that fact. But what he did find, shocked him.

_Hey Katniss,_

_First letter I've written in Elf knows how long. But this needed to be said - or written...whatever._

_Look, I just wanted to say first how sorry I am, not that I think it might help make you forgive me. We're not in grade school, and I just want you to know that I am sorry. I don't think I can write down, or even show, just how torn up I am. It was unfair of me - unfair of US - to have asked you to do so much alone. It wasn't until everything blew up that we realized just how important your work was, and we just let you jump into that fire without any of us even trying to stand by with a bucket of water in case you got burned in the process. And for that, you can't even begin to comprehend how much we're thankful for your sacrifices. _

(There was a bunch of scratched out words, as if Tony didn't know how to write out his tumultuous thoughts. But underneath the mistakes, there was one line that made Clint's blood run cold.)

_We know about Arrow._

_I can't think just how bad you must be feeling right now, cause I already feel like my heart's been ripped out of my chest. Pepper keeps telling me I have one of those. It isn't until times like this I even remember that I do._

_You were right, we should have tried harder. You are my teammate, my best friend, my brother...I should have been there for you. If I had been there, if I had forced myself to find you, then maybe things would have turned out different. If Pepper could find you under a park bench in Atlantic City, I could have found you in New York. But I didn't. We didn't, and for that, we let you down. Again, this isn't to get you to forgive us, cause I know just how badly we screwed up. But we just want you to know that that this is on us. Not you. ...if that makes sense._

_Well...anyways..._

_I mean . . . Is it even possible to have awkward silences in a letter?!_

There were more scratched out words, Tony's attempt to change topic without demoralizing the loss written above. Someone else's handwriting, Steve most likely, took over for a line or two, but that had also been erased before Tony started writing again.

_Well, as you can tell by now, I took out your auricular receivers. Pointy said you can't get too excited or you might pass out. You are doing better, he says. They got the crap out of your lungs, but now it's in your stomach. It'll get out one of two ways. Let me know before that happens. We wrapped you up to keep your stomach from exploding, apparently. What the hell is with this elf stuff, anyways?_

_So, don't take them off...and don't move...in fact, try not to breathe too deep._

_Voldemort's been tromping through the woods after us for the past few hours. Pointy and Spock had the bright idea to get some elf faeries from the Earth-world or something come over, and they literally built a tree around our tree. So for now, we are stuck up here until him and the children of the corn take off. We have to keep to sign language for now._

_Steve proof-read this. He objects to my use of the word _(Clint couldn't read what Steve had obviously worked hard to blank out)_. He wanted to write something too, but I threw it in the fire. It was too...old._

_Again, I'm sorry. _

_I miss him, too._

_-Genius, billionaire, affianced, philanthropist._

Clint finished the letter, but had no idea how he should feel after it. Surely, all of him was a tumble of churning emotions as thick as the pit in his stomach that refused to dislodge. Tony knew. Steve knew. Here in his hands rested the second and third of so many more condolences on a death he could hardly bring himself to terms with alone. Part of him wanted to ball up the script and toss it into the fire. But there was no fire, not since they were shut up within the walls of the outer tree. So he held it instead.

Tony touched his arm to get Clint's attention. He signed, "~I'm going to do whatever I can to make this right. I'm swearing to that.~"

Clint didn't have the strength to sign something back.

"~I'm getting something for your stomach.~" Tony said. He tapped Clint's legs on his lap, and slowly the archer pulled them away. He wasn't much help. His entire body fought to remain as immobile as a stone statue. He had less energy in him now than the time he spent sick in bed with Pepper Potts. And back then, he not only had the flu, but also a gunshot wound. Tony didn't mind, and climbed himself out from under the man with no complaints. He arranged the quilt over Clint's legs again, and made his way into the cupboard out of Clint's vision.

Barton considered the letter again. Tony didn't write. There were times Clint wondered if he even remembered how. The scientist typed, or delegated and fabricated. He had no doubt that, within the past three years, Tony had written quantum mechanics more often than the letter A. Tony hadn't forgotten his sign language either. Even as long as Clint had been away, Tony's technique seemed to have improved more than before. Had he actually been practicing?

He closed his eyes as he waited for Stark to get back with whatever he may find. After a time, he felt a hand touch the side of his face and he looked up. Tony had a handful of something Clint didn't recognize and a steaming cup. Steve stood behind him with an expression of complete relief. Tony first gave Clint one of the round things in his hand. He pretended to pop one of them in his own mouth to indicate Clint should eat it. Clint didn't question it. He slid the empty tasting thing past his teeth and chewed lightly. It may have been a fruit, or a root, or some kind of bread. It was impossible to tell as the flavor and texture changed with every move of his jaw. He swallowed.

Tony signed to get his attention. "~Swallow it?~"

Clint nodded.

Tony gave him the cup. Clint drank the bitter tea within, and Stark set the rest of his things on the table. He motioned to Steve, who moved to Clint's legs, as if the two of them planned to pick him up.

"~That should make you throw up. Pointy says it's the best thing for you. Try not to be too loud, we're hiding in a tree.~"

The traitor! The little fissures of mistrust Clint slowly worked to fill in between Tony and himself threatened to break again. Clint didn't want to throw up. Frankly, it was the last thing he wanted to do. Already he was as drained as he could possibly feel, and now Tony went ahead and spiked his food. If there was one thing beside wet socks Clint couldn't stand in life, it was vomiting. The whole idea and process made his skin crawl. Tony knew that full well, so it was no wonder Stark didn't tell him what he was eating.

Steve coordinated the both of them, and in one fell swoop Clint went from lying on his back to slung upright between them. His every internal organ sank into his pelvis, and the pressure against his venom filled gut sliced through him. Clint couldn't hear the cry he nearly released, but surely the others had. Steve's hand flew up to his mouth, clamping tightly down to prevent the escape of the sound. Barton tried to swallow it back. Patiently, they waited for him to find control. At Clint's wary nod, they tried to move again. It was slow progress. He hardly helped do more than move his feet every few steps, but they never complained.

He had some sense of how long they had had to plan out these events when he arrived at the little bedroom they shared the night prior. Extra blankets and boards thickly entwined in fresh, green vines split the room on the left side. There was a washroom there which had been insulated with special care and attention. They knew this was coming, how much it may pain him, and anticipated the need for better sound proofing. The fact that they even considered this far ahead threatened to bring on a cold sweat. He wanted to stop them, to go back to the couch, but weak as he was, he had no option left open.

They fashioned the room sensibly. He had one bucket to vomit in and a second full of fresh water to clean up with it. Steve drew the makeshift doorway closed as Tony carefully lowered Clint to the ground.

"~They shouldn't hear you. We tested it.~" Tony signed to him. He hiked a thumb at the bucket. "~Pointy says it shouldn't take long. A few minutes before that thing hits bottom. After this, it's over. We've just got to get through this. The longer you hold it in, the more damage it's going to do. So unless you want to have more ulcers than a freshman medical student, I wouldn't hold back.~"

Steve leaned on the newly formed walls beside Stark. "~Don't swallow. Spit it all out.~" he signed, also surprisingly eloquently. Had both of them been taking classes?

Clint sat on the floor with his legs extended in front of him. His back supported by the pedestal of a wash basin. He considered the empty bucket to his left, and nearly began vomiting just from the thought of what he was being asked to do.

"It's a little weird that you're here." He whispered.

Steve signed, but spelled out Haladarrel's name rather than refer to him as Pointy (which Tony indicated by swiping both index fingers above his ears). "Haladarrel said this will be hard on you. Like everything else. He's outside in case you stop breathing again."

_Again_. Clint clung to that word for a while. How many times had he stopped breathing today? Since yesterday? If the elf hadn't found them, how long would he have lasted?

Tony hit Steve in the calf with his hand. Though Clint missed the sound of the contact, he knew it was hard enough to hurt Tony's hand.

"Stop scaring him." Tony said.

"I'm not, I thought he'd want to know!" Steve defended.

"I can read lips, you know." Clint put in.

Tony shielded his lips from Steve's eyes, and mouthed something inappropriate about the captain to Clint. Barton wanted to stay angry. He tried so hard to hold onto that wall of disdain he'd built around his feelings for his friends. But true to their relationship, Tony threw a monkey wrench right into that. Barton couldn't help but grin and, as soon as he did, so did Steve and Tony.

"So...this is awkward." Clint admitted, trying to get more comfortable against the wash basin. "You guys just . . . just waiting for me to do this."

"Don't get performance anxiety on us." Tony said with a grin.

"I might."

"I can hold your hair."

"No, Tony."

"Your handbag?"

Clint's stomach clenched beneath the thick wraps they'd tied to him. He squeezed his eyes closed as he rode out the discomfort. That familiar pressure neglected to form in the back of his throat, so he was temporarily spared the inevitable.

Tony moved the bucket a little closer, and himself a little farther. For the first time, Clint noticed they both wore leather gloves. It seemed odd on Tony, who very rarely restricted his hands outside of the Iron Man suit. He had a tactile sense of how the world worked and couldn't resist feeling everything. On Steve, it wasn't almost expected. Clint indicated them by first trying to sweep his fingers together, then he remembered how his broken shoulder hadn't exactly healed overnight.

"Gloves?" he asked through the spike of acute pain.

"Pointy says we shouldn't touch whatever you spew up this time. Last thing we want is to look like you. We might not be so lucky and end up with a bunch of people staring at us waiting for us to vomit."

"That's touching, Tony." Clint's face scrunched as he rode out another spasm in his middle.

"Should we play your birth coach?" Tony asked and signed at the same time.

"Shove it." Clint replied.

"Breathe, 1. 2. 3."

"Tony - " Clint's good hand massaged between his eye brows. He did not feel so good.

"What do you hate eating? Cauliflower? Liver? Maggots on a sandwich in the middle of July in Darfur with mayonnaise just running everywhere - "

"Oh, Tony, come on!" Steve exclaimed holding a hand over his own mouth.

It was just enough of a tipping point for Clint. He leaned over the bucket, and suddenly all of the swallowed contents in his gut came up at the same time. A set of hands held him up as he retched. Acid burned his throat sore. He coughed and gagged, hurling again. Clint's head swam, and he stifled a scream as he was leaned back against a cold body. His chest and shoulders were on fire. He held his arms around himself, as if to keep from pulling apart. Something frigid crossed his face, cleaning him up he supposed. He couldn't imagine how he must have looked. Then again, he hardly cared. He'd been wearing the same pair of clothes since he left the airport in Germany and started back packing into the mountains. He smelled like sweat, gunpowder, venom, and blood. He threw up into the waste bin again, doing what he could to not swallow it back down like Steve warned. He didn't want to repeat this again.

Tony wiped his face with a cloth again behind the cover of his gloves. Before Clint realized what it was, Tony had trapped another of the strange breadfruits into his mouth. Behind him, Steve clamped Clint's mouth shut and forced him to swallow it. So much for not repeating the events.

"You . . . suck." Clint panted through the seizure in his middle.

"I know." Tony said, but Clint couldn't read his lips, or watch his signs.

Haladarrel quietly opened the door and slipped inside. He sealed the wall behind himself, and nodded at the two Avengers.

"How does he fair?"

"It's not easy on him." Steve said.

Feeling Steve talking through the reverberations in his back, Clint forced his eyes open. He saw Haladarrel in the doorway. He thought he should say something, but couldn't manage it.

"It is nearly over. When he eases, I will be satisfied. Then we can consider hydrating him."

Clint tapped Steve's leg, and the Captain helped him lean over the bucket again. They would continue this dance for what seemed like hours until Clint had nothing left to give. Tony and Steve took turns feeding the tea and water into him until he could drink no more and his stomach felt it would burst. Then they would give him another peculiar fruit, and out it would all come. It was as exhausting work as everything else he'd been subjected to, from the night he coughed up blood, to the day he spent in the arms of the agents of death. Clint had no control over what they forced into him, he only wished that soon it would all be over and he could crawl back to that wicker couch and sleep for the next century.

Clint sat on the floor of the make-shift hut, surrounded by three friends who planned to not let him leave until they were sure he'd completely detoxed. Though they didn't want him to be over-excited, Tony did concede and returned to him one hearing aid for a short time. In the interim of his retching, Tony and Steve took their time to update him on what he missed while recovering.

After Clint came so very close to dying on them, Haladarrel decided it was better to not leave his side for very long, despite hearing Ge'elaphi's hunting horn blowing in the distance. The group knew very well that the Southling clan would march through the area soon. With their numbers, it was unlikely they would pass Doodle's home by without at least searching through it. They must either risk moving Clint now, or hide. They knew very well the danger they faced in moving him, and it was agreed unanimously that, despite what may come, they would rather stand and fight before they risked that again. So they must stay and hide. But how? For that, they turned to Doodle.

He was very familiar with the few neighbors who hid in the woods around him, and one such home included a couple from Earthenden. It took a little convincing to make Tony and Steve understand the significance of this news, but since then, they had come to terms with the idea. Elves of the barrier islands could speak to the wind, they had a connection with the air that Tony planned to one day fully quantify. Elves of Skydale had the same sort of connection. Woodrenkell elves, such as Doodle and Queen Fehreh, could feed the earth and spent their days cataloging the lower life forms or maintaining the balance between the wildlife living among them, including faralirs. As an elf with kin in Outer Glencove and Woodrenkell, Haladarrel had a particular connection to both faralirs and the wind, a point which he used to his advantage against Ge'elaphi's garrison. Blueskin elves preferred to keep their secrets among themselves, and many there belonged to a variety of clans. But Earthenden elves were a very special sort. They were masons, but instead of manipulating granite and marble, they worked in trees and vine. After discovering it, Steve came up with the plan to encapsulate all of Doodle's home. After that, everything else fell into place.

They grabbed enough provisions to hold out for a few days should Ge'elaphi's men tarry, and, with everyone sealed inside, the Earthenden elves coaxed the massive oak tree from the soil around Doodle's home. Up, up into the sky the home went, carried by the limbs of the great tree into the canopy far above prying eyes. Once it was set within the branches of others, the tree grew outward, its limbs twisting and contorting until there was nothing left to be seen of Doodle's home. Despite the height, they risked being found out if they were not cautious with their movements.

Clint could almost see it himself as they described the effect to him. A good story was just what he needed to take his mind off the fact that his stomach had the potential to perforate in thirty five places. The last thing he remembered, before waking up back on the settee, was Tony reaching forward to take his hearing aid out again. He'd heard enough stories for one night. It was time to get some rest.

* * *

nothing like a little bedtime story! Things are...dare say...looking brighter!

_Next time: Rescue the Outriders!_

Oh, my...what COULD that mean? please_ review!_


	17. Rescue the Outriders!

And here, danger no longer trickles in, it pounds like the tide of a colossal swell.

remember, the symbols "~ ~" denotes speech made through sign language

caution, the evil of the Southlings depravity is mentioned here. no true bucks lost their lives in the creation of this tale.

* * *

Chapter 16 –Rescue the Outriders!-

Steve stood at the sliver of wood that served as a lookout post. He estimated it would be a good plan on their part to tuck a layer of false bark, designed from grey wooden boards, to serve as a port hole of sorts. It allowed them to gauge the distance of Ge'elaphi's men. After a night of marching, the entire clan was upon them. He made a preliminary count out of habit and identified at least fifty individuals on the first wave. Four other factions joined with the first, ballooning his estimation to over four hundred. From traveling through Woodrenkell on Stark's back, Steve knew there were more elves out there. Either way, the number was too much for them to handle with an elder elf who couldn't think of war, let alone fight one, an outrider who considered killing an elf to be the highest form of debauchery, an injured Clint Barton, an exhausted Iron Man, and himself. They might hold out for a little while, but one swipe from a venom blade and the battle would be over before it began. After witnessing a cure through Clint's eyes, Steve never wanted to find himself in a similar predicament, super healing or not.

Someone touched his elbow and the soldier regarded Tony. He nodded in greeting and stepped away to let Tony have a look. There was no need to point out the dire straits.

"~Staying the night it looks like.~" Tony signed. They'd decided keeping to the motions was easier than accidentally speaking too loud and having one of the tree elves come across their voices.

"~They want his body. They hope by covering the forest they might find it.~"

"~No body no crime.~"

"~That's what I think.~" Steve added, agreeing. Ge'elaphi hoped to infuriate the forces of Asgard to provoke a war with the King of Alfheimr. If he couldn't prove that Clint was dead, or even in the elven realm, then the entire mission was for nothing. "~But that still doesn't answer who on Asgard he's working with. You know I'd say Loki or the Enchantress in a heartbeat. But one of them is dead and the other is guarded by a dragon in Hel.~"

Tony agreed. "~Thor never mentioned any other enemies. I know white-beard has been close to the deep end since Thor's mom died, but you don't think?~"

Of that Steve certainly did not agree with. Odin may have been torn in grief, but that wouldn't push him to manufacturing a war on the elves for no reason whatsoever. "~Let's leave the politics until we find Thor.~" He indicated the kitchen with a thumb over his shoulder and made the symbol for Clint.

"~Up. Spock's trying to feed him.~"

Steve nearly laughed. He could imagine how well that was going. Clint's loss of body condition scared everyone, though he seemed to take it on the touchy side when they brought it up. Natasha liked to think he'd been kidnapped and tortured in a dungeon of Dr. Doom for four months. Tony assumed he was living off of fruit roll ups and twizzlers. Pepper thought he had cancer. Bruce had money on leukemia and aplastic anemia specifically. To Thor, he was dying. Steve was more practical than the rest. He'd seen men in foxholes. Trapped behind enemy lines but not necessarily POWs. They existed in a world of shadows, not quite dead but not alive either. They were so focused on their work that nothing, not even the basic human needs like hunger or thirst, were met. He'd done it to himself in World War II and so had a lot of the men working on his Howling Commandos. Clint wasn't dying, or sick, or a victim of torture. He was driven and taking him off that unidirectional focus was going to be like trying to break a wild mustang.

Steve indicated the lookout port and left the watch in Tony's hands. He headed back into the main room to see what, if any, progress Doodle was making with the worst patient in all of Alfheimr. Part of his difficulty came in the fact that Clint turned a corner. From the moment he opened his eyes after their round of detox he looked appreciably better. He was still as pale as the light elves, but if he did as he was told and drank the bone marrow soup Doodle meticulously prepared for him that would soon improve also. Clint, however, didn't trust anything they attempted to give him. Already he'd been hot boxed with blood-spewing herbs, forced to smoke to swallow venom, flushed with acidic, alcohol-like herbs in his formerly necrotic shoulder, and then when all was going so well, Tony and Steve drugged him for three hours to make him vomit. So, like a cat refusing to swallow one more dang pill from a demanding owner, Clint folded his arms, buttoned his lip, and eyed the bone marrow soup as if it was infused in arsenic.

Exacerbated, but unable to speak, Doodle shot a withering glance at Steve. Steve, in response, took the elf's post for him and relieved Doodle of his duties. He perched on the end of the chair and used the wooden spoon to stir the contents of the soup. The soup failed to smell particularly appetizing. It was no wonder Clint refused it. Steve lifted the spoon and took the first sip himself. Despite the smell, the taste wasn't so bad. Having the first bite of food in four days hit his lips suddenly made him realize how hungry he was. Clint couldn't hear the massive growl that ripped through his intestines. From the kitchen, though, Haladarrel turned with a smile.

Without offering any to Clint, Steve took another sip. If he felt this hungry, there was no telling how Stark must be. They'd split water between them in the Faramir tree and beside the second protein bar they shared, they had accepted no other food. Doodle attempted to offer them his hospitality the morning before, but when Haladarrel came back injured and Clint nearly died, their stomachs went forgotten.

He scraped the bottom of the bowl with the spoon to get the chunkier bits of meat and vegetables onto the ladle and then let it hover in the space between Clint and him.

"Eat it." He mouthed.

Clint looked at the spoon, then at Steve. He still wasn't certain.

"You need your strength if we are going to fight our way out of here. Eat it." He continued to say without sound.

After an internal debate, Clint determined Steve may have had a small point. Refusing to be hand fed like a sick dog, he took the spoon, spilled some of the contents, and swallowed. Satisfied, Steve edged closer and held the bowl and allowed Clint to feed himself. No muss, no fuss.

With his free hand, Steve waved to Haladarrel. He indicated the bowl, then the next room where Tony stood watch for them. The meaning was clear enough. Everyone would do better if they took the opportunity to eat. Only a day since he returned injured, and already Haladarrel acted as if nothing happened to him. His wound had healed over and though some internal damage needed time to mend, he recovered at the rate only Asgardians seemed to entertain. Though he'd used the healing herbs to stave off any potential envenomation, it was obvious he hadn't been struck with a laced blade. He mentioned before being concerned over the health of the king, who had been stabbed with a venom blade just before he left the camp, but seeing his transformational recovery gave Steve hope that the king would be alive and well.

Haladarrel walked by with two spare bowls. He handed one to Steve with a wedge of bread and moved on to Tony. He sent a pleasant expression toward Clint. Everyone was pleased with his continued progress. Once Ge'elaphi moved on, they would take the opportunity to make a run for the coastline. Whether that meant everyone going together, or sending out a single emissary remained to be seen. Stark became the most qualified of them. He could cover a considerable amount of ground in a short period of time and with Haladarrel's directions he had the greatest chance of reaching the royals before any of them. Convincing Tony that the best thing to do for Clint was to go off and leave him behind was an entirely different matter. Steve knew that bridge needed crossing, but with the Southlings outside their doors, he refrained from getting too deep into that particular conversation.

He appreciated the food as well and made no comment when Clint silently reached across and stole half the bread off this lap. Steve took the other half and dropped it into Clint's bowl. If he wanted to eat only bread and water for the next thirty days, he could have as much as he wanted.

Steve wanted to have a conversation. He wanted to say and ask so many things. Clint had been gone for months. What had he done? Where did he go? Who did he trust to work with him, and what in the Nine Realms got him to the Alps? Did he ever talk to Fury? Did he know more about the fall of Shield than Steve did? It was impossible to ask so much when he needed his hands to talk. No one liked the idea of giving Clint his hearing aids back. Haladarrel warned numerous times that over stimulating him could result in a relapse of his symptoms. One of the easiest ways to keep him calm was taking away his ability to hear the hoots, screams, and howls of those wild beings thrumming bellow them.

As the factions of Ge'elaphi's forces converged, they bedded down for the night. Great fires burned in the glen and the children of the leader danced and burned their meats. Hunters dragged two massive bucks into the interim camp. They let the faralirs loose on them and the campfires cackled in tune to the buck's cries. Even as Steve held Clint's bowl for him to eat, his mind filled with the sounds of those dying creatures. Doodle chose to hide in the washroom for a time. His Woodrenkell side tearing apart at the loss of life he could do nothing to prevent. It was one thing for a faralir to take meat for sustenance. What happened below them was blood sport.

"Steve?" Barton barely whispered to him. Not hearing his own voice made it difficult to know how loud he should be.

It wasn't enough. Steve's attention had been drawn away by a particular increase in the riot below. Haladarrel was particularly affected by it himself. If Tony hadn't stopped him, the entire porcelain bowl in his hands may have shattered on the floor. Steve knew he had to get over there and calm them down.

"Steve?" Clint tried a little louder. He reached forward with his good hand, trying to get the captain's attention.

At the touch, Steve started. He spilled the bowl and swiftly placed it to the side. He held a hand to his mouth to quiet Clint and went over to the growing ruckus in the alcove. Tony and Haladarrel were almost coming to blows. The Iron Man had him around the waist, the board slid back over their scout hole, and Haladarrel did everything he could to get away from him.

Clint watched the struggle with wide-eyed wonder. What could cause such a reaction in Haladarrel? Up to this point the calmest one among them had been the younger elf. To see him so affected and having no idea as to why, Clint felt beside himself and disconnected. He wished Tony hadn't taken his receivers.

Steve moved in to help. He took Haladarrel in his hands and tried to talk some sense into him, or at the very least understand what was happening. Tony mouthed the words that Steve could just barely make out.

"They captured some outriders."

"They'll kill them!" Haladarrel wanted to scream. He needed to get away. He had to get down there and save them.

Steve moved to the board and peered out to the fires below. Some of the king's men Rinon sent throughout Alfheimr arrived in the midst of Ge'elaphi's camp. They were taken into the midst of the fires to stand at the leader's feet. Having been in their position once, Haladarrel knew the danger they faced. He knew the heavy weight of his heart from laying the traps that took the lives of the Southlings along the Elven Way. The elves below may sense the danger, the depravity, they were drawn into but none of outriders could expect Ge'elaphi to harm them. It would mean their death if Haladarrel did nothing.

"If you go out there, they'll know we are here, and they will come to drawl us out." Steve risked speaking.

"I can't let them just murder those brothers! Linnor is the king's man who brought me to the court. I cannot stand and watch him die!"

"Linnor?" Tony asked. He peaked out through the pane again. The man closest to Ge'elaphi had dramatically long, red hair with intricate gold cuffs enrapturing his ears. Seeing him with the name to go along with it reminded Tony of an elf he had met once before during the Frost Giant war of Asgard. "Steve, remember that elf who rode with Nat on that big bird thing and made her go all gaga?"

Steve leaned in again. Sure enough he recognized the elf and sent a glance toward Clint. "They were riding a hawk. That is a bird."

"I cannot leave him there! Faraday is his brother. They are all that remains of their line!"

Steve wasn't sure what to do. He understood Haladarrel's horror but they had to weigh the risk against the reward. They had the potential of rescuing both Faraday and Linnor, but at what loss? Even with their added support, they couldn't hold all of Ge'elaphi's elves back. The minute Haladarrel climbed from the tree house they may discover the hiding place.

"Tony, how good could you be about sneaking out of here in your suit?" Steve asked.

"I'll be fast, but not quiet."

Haladarrel could hardly believe his ears. "You cannot hope to do this for me? Your friend lies here. It is not your duty to save the lives of mine."

"Seriously?" Tony hiked a thumb at the elf. "You heard that right? He seriously said that? After he kept Clint breathing for five hours straight?"

"Get the suit."

Tony headed for the bedroom. Clint waved at him as he passed by and asked what was going on. Tony sent him a quick sign to say all was fine, but Clint knew very well not to believe it. He turned his attention to Steve and Haladarrel instead who continued to speak with their backs to him. It was positively frustrating. The more he watched their agitation rise the tighter his muscles pulled, creating strain in his broken shoulder. He didn't realize how much stress it caused until a small cry formed in his throat that he had to force down. Finally Steve and Haladarrel noticed what they'd done in excluding him.

Steve stepped closer in the small candle light they kept on. He signed, "~Tony's going to go solve a little problem. Relax or you're going to blow up your lungs again.~"

It was difficult to sign one-handed, but Clint had no other option. "~What problem?~"

"~Remember L-i-n-n-o-r-?~"

Clint made the symbol for Natasha, two fingers sweeping from his jaw to his eye than half of his own call name. "~Natasha, hawk?~"

Steve nodded. "~He's down there. Captured. Tony needed to fly from here to the king's camp anyway. He's going down to save him and his brother, then he is going to find the king.~"

Clint couldn't form the word for back up without his other hand so he spelled it out.

"~Right. So far, his suit has stood up to flying projectiles. If that holds out, he's the best one for the job.~"

Clint didn't like the idea of sending Tony out, but the way they described the situation, he knew they had no other recourse. Without a doubt they were holding back the worst of the details. Despite their desire to keep him as calm as possible, Clint felt only the opposite.

"~I don't like it.~" He signed.

Tony appeared from the bedroom fully suited. Despite the dexterity of his gauntlets, there was no way for him to properly sign for Clint to decipher. He pulled out a small cylinder and handed it over to the deaf archer. Before he let go of the end, he stared all the way into Clint's soul.

"I'm giving these back because we might need to move. If it's too much, I'm trusting you to take them back out. Promise?" Tony mouthed.

_They must be my receivers,_ Clint thought. If Tony leaving the hideout was going to bring attention to the group within, then Clint just may find himself thrown over the captain's shoulders and hauled off into the woods under heavy fire. If that was the case, he most likely needed to be able to hear at some point. This would all be easier if Arrow was with him. The wolf was like his rock. A steady foundation who climbed onto his lap on every hospital stay or guided him in the field when his hearing aids went out. In a situation like this he felt the absence like a pain in his chest.

Tony saw that too. "It's going to be all right. I'm getting you out of here and we're going home together." He released the end of the cylinder for Clint to work open. To Steve he whispered, "this goes south, you get everyone out. I'll catch up somehow."

"I will follow you down." Haladarrel said, grabbing his weapons.

"No, I need you here." Tony admonished. "Steve can't get everyone out by himself. He'll need you. I'll grab the scouts, you stay put."

Haladarrel wanted to protest, but Tony refused to hear it.

Steve had gone back to the window to see how things progressed. Already they'd separated Linnor and Faraday. One of the men had been riding a faralir but that animal struggled under the ropes and ties of the Southlings. A few aimed their bows toward the bound creature. No doubt their arrows were laced in venom.

"We're out of time." Steve told them.

Tony headed to the cellar (a room that had since been elevated after the tree pushed them into the canopy). They discussed the potential for getting out from there on an emergency basis though they hadn't planned to ever try it. They hoped that by waiting Ge'elaphi's men out, they would continue their march onward across Woodrenkell and leave the Avengers in peace. This changed their plans dramatically. If he played his timing right and relied on the heat signatures from outside the oak, he could potentially slip out of the hidden doorway without being noticed.

He waited beside the cellar door, scanning the area three or four times before he felt comfortable enough to leave. He flicked the one-way latch, rushed through the opening, and pulled the seamless doorway closed behind him. Three seconds later he walked right into the end of an arrow in his chest.

Tony smiled at the Southling archer outlined by the raging fires below them.

"Uh, s'mores?"

* * *

someone break out the marshmallows!

_Next time: I am an Avenger_

Get ready, things are going SOUTH! please_ review!_


	18. I Am An Avenger

all i have to say is... NO!

* * *

Chapter 17 –I Am An Avenger—

The elf drew back his bow and fired the arrow into Tony's chest plates. The arc reactor caught the brunt of the blow and hardly flickered in response to the attack. Tony smirked behind the cover of his faceplate. He swiped the shaft away and kicked the elf in the center of the chest. The last thing he needed was someone alerting the enemy to where he'd come out of the tree. The Southling dropped like a rock, screaming his way to the forest floor below. Tony followed him down on a less direct route in hopes of covering his tracks. He tore through the canopy overhead, sending a rain of tree limbs into the fires and legions milling below. If he didn't have their attention before, he had it now.

The ARC reactor hummed in the pulse of his suit as he charged the repulsers in his hands. The first mission was to get the two Light Elves clear. For that, he sent down a bed of cover fire from one end of Ge'elaphi's forces to the other. He dropped through the trees, accessed the less concussive rockets at his shoulders, and sent them in the wake of his initial blasts. Filtered red and orange light erupted in the viewer of his display. He touched down right in the center of it all.

"Someone order a drive-by rescue?" He asked the Light Elves.

"Sahanala! The Man of Metal Light!" Faraday exclaimed. He held out his hands where they had been bound at the wrist.

Tony cocked his head back as he cut through the ropes of Linnor and Faraday both. "Metal Light? You guys giving me pet names now?"

"Hali`!" Linnor shouted, pointing up.

Tony turned just in time to duck under an onslaught of a thrown spear. He took the force of the point in the plates along his back, but still the armor held. He stole the spear out of the metal and returned the weapon into the throng of Southlings.

"Do me a favor and grab on! We're getting out of here!"

"We cannot! We must find the Archer of—" Faraday dropped to his knees to avoid a slew of arrows fired past the wall of flames Tony fed.

Not wanting to take the time to explain, Tony grabbed the elf by the back of his tunic and electrified his grip. Faraday was forced to cling to him and, moreover, he had his brother's arm in hand at the same moment and similarly could not let go even if he wished it. Tony fired up his heels, and made the first blast through the trees.

Faraday continued to fight against him. "You do not understand! We are commissioned to find – "

"Yeah, you're not helping!" Tony shouted back. He dodged in flight as an assembly of Southlings literally fell from the sky around them. One wielded a knife. Tony threw him back with a fist, twisting in midair as the two elven outriders flew into an unattached free fall. Stark hit the next Southling back first, and fired a repulser into a third. The two brothers fell, grasping at tree limbs along their way. Tony dipped, kicking out at one Southling and launching a missile into another nest of archers. As Faraday and Linnor neared the ground, Tony grabbed them both by the waist and they climbed the air again.

"A little close, my friend, do you not think?" Linnor asked, almost enjoying himself.

"Guys trying to die can't complain when they're saved." Tony replied. He kicked his thrusters up another gear and they accelerated, blasting down the small clearing of the winding Eastward Elven Way.

:(:):(:):

"He is clear." Haladarrel whispered, watching the events unfold beneath them. The Southlings ran from left to right in their panic. Some sought to choke out the fires with water or dirt. Others went in pursuit of their lost men on the backs of tchelins or dehorned faralirs. The beasts strained under the heavy weight of those forcing them on. He had no doubt they rested very little since the Southlings first captured them in the wood. A bond with a faralir, or any beast for that matter, was a sacred thing based on a mutual respect and understanding. This was slavery to inbred masters. It sickened him to his core.

Steve placed a hand on his arm and beckoned Haladarrel away. If Tony went free, all that remained was to wait for his return. The excitement even drew Doodle from his melancholy washroom. He stood beside the chimney as if he may somehow force it to light. He was not a fighter and the very sound of what went on below made him ill.

He raised a finger and indicated outdoors.

Steve gave him a thumbs up. Haladarrel and Doodle both failed to understand him, so he looked to Clint. Barton made a curt motion with two fingers that they could comprehend. All was most certainly not well, but for now they went undiscovered. Steve returned to the archer's side and removed the few bowls of food.

"~You should get some more sleep while you can.~" he signed.

Clint didn't exactly want to tell him the truth, that he was too wound up to even think about sleeping. Most likely that would make them all worry about his health again. He knew excitement of any kind threatened to drag him out of remission but given the circumstances he didn't know what else to do. Steve could be right. Clint had two options; he could either try to settle down, or he could stay up, as tightly wound as a bowstring, and start coughing up blood again. When he considered it that way, he only had one option.

Haladarrel approved of his decision. He came around, drawing a blanket over Clint's chest as he laid back on the hard wicker and soft furs. If he had any hope of actually sleeping, he should even go as far as removing his hearing aids. The shouts and cackles, roars of faralir and cries for bloodshed filled his mind. These Southlings were surely as evil as the biblical Cain and twice as deadly as any man. He needed to reach one hundred percent fighting capacity to be happy again.

Steve took the bowls to the kitchen and placed them in the bucket by the pump handle. They weren't likely to get any water out of it after shooting up sixty feet from the well source but at least he could make things tidy.

A mighty _thump _dropped just above him. From the settee, Clint lifted up to look at the captain. Both went very still. A clear set of foot falls echoed in the branches. Haladarrel slowly reached for his bow and quiver. He placed the latter over his head against his back and put an arrow to his nocking point. Something told him, they may have been discovered.

Steve crossed to the sealed front door. He picked up his shield in preparation should something burst through. Before they'd gone, the Earthenden elves, Til and Agïṻ, set the bark of the over tree perfectly against the entrances of Doodle's home. The seams were nearly invisible unless a trained eye looked very closely. Steve knew they ran the risk of discovery when he sent Stark out.

The footsteps continued, increasing as more Southlings gathered. The limbs bowed beneath the added weight. They had no doubt that something amiss had been noticed in the tree mass.

Steve threw a glance to Clint. "~Get down.~"

Clint had no opportunity to follow orders.

From above, the ceiling burst open. A wave of Southlings dropped into the main room of the hidden elven home with bows and sword at the ready for attack. Doodle threw himself back and rushed to find something to use as a weapon. Clint's bow shot into his hand. He swung it into the nearest Southling, but the force of his swing dumped him to the floor. A shock of pain burst through his middle.

"Hawkeye!" Steve shouted.

He let his shield fly. The razor edge cut through the nearest elves as he tried to get closer to where Barton fell. Beside him, Haladarrel's bow made short work of those attackers caught in his crosshair. But the more he dispatched, the more flooded the room until they were overwhelmed. The door burst inward. From the cellar came a second faction. Every one of them held blades tipped in elaren, or arrows fused in venom.

Clint forced himself to stand. His anemic body could hardly tolerate the movement, but he had to try. He grabbed the arrows from an elf that had fallen and, despite his broken shoulder, tried to pull his bow back. He never even touched the string before the pain beat him into submission. Firing the bow was definitely out of the question.

Steve continued to fight toward him. His shield made short work of those around. When the front door burst open, however, the sheer force at his back overpowered him. Despite their frail appearance, elves were as powerful as Asgardians. They worked in tandem to force him back, out, and onto the branches of the tree limb.

Haladarrel struck out at the closest Southling, and rushed the line to get to Steve. Another three descended on him before he made it so far. They took him about his shoulders and suddenly he found himself in free fall.

"Haladarrel!" Clint exclaimed. Someone grabbed him from behind. A fist drove into the bindings that held his stomach, and Clint's vision exploded in stars of black and red. When his eyes opened again, he saw Steve and his shield tumbling through open air, as the Southlings dragged him over the side of the limb. He fell - down, down - to the forest floor sixty feet below.

"Do not do this!" Doodle exclaimed as they dragged him away from his home. "What has happened to you?! Why do you do this? Have you no sense of yourselves? Ackarae? Ackarae, look to me!"

The Southlings forced Clint to march. When he resisted they buried their fists into him. He dropped, and they yanked him up. The tug of war continued until he was outside the home and teetering on the very edge of space. Steve and Haladarrel were splayed on the ground where they fell. Neither moved. They hardly breathed. For all Clint knew, both had been thrown to their very deaths.

The leader of the Southlings armies strode toward the fallen allies. The back drop of smoke and fire emblazoned him in embers which threatened to catch all of Woodrenkell up in flames. Ge'elaphi raised his voice to be heard in the canopy.

"Archer of Midgard. Odin's pet. Come down to me. We have played this game long enough."

The Southlings took more care getting Clint and Doodle down from the hidden home than they had with either Steve or Haladarrel. Clint was thrown to his knees in the charcoal left from Tony's onslaught, flanked on either side by Steve and Haladarrel. Both survived their falls, though they looked worse off than before they dropped sixty feet. Haladarrel's nose bled down his face and no doubt Steve would be feeling the soreness by morning. Steve's concern, though, rested with Clint and he had sound reason for it. Ge'elaphi approached them, wielding no weapon, but the dozens around held enough venom to kill an army of men. To resist was useless.

"Thought you'd be taller." Clint cracked a smile as he considered the Southling leader. He had heard little of the elf beside snippets of conversation, and knew nothing of his illustrious history from Doodle or Haladarrel. What Clint did understand, was the danger Ge'elaphi wrought on them.

"You will hold your tongue in father's presence!" One young male warned him.

"Father?" He looked around. "All of them? Wow, someone's been a busy bee."

Ge'elaphi did not lower his eyes to Clint, but instead spoke to the air above him. "Odin's archer. The Wielder of Sleiphner's bow and Thor's Hammer. Champion of Midgard."

"You forgot to say Avenger." Clint said with a tight jaw.

Steve's eyes flicked to him in a swell of pride. Hawkeye was back.

"You have survived our worst bite and stand alive before me. This creates a disease in the change slated for this realm."

"If I get to be a disease can I pick which one? I always had an affinity for plague."

Without warning, Clint found a boot driven into his tight wraps. He fell backward into the ash with the force of the blow. Steve and Haladarrel both launched to their feet to assist him, but were shoved back down. Ge'elaphi, ignoring the protestations of his prisoners, continued to press on. He kicked again, connecting with Clint's middle. The archer curled up to protect himself, but weak with blood loss and pain already, had no defense. Haladarrel's warning rang in the back of his mind with every strike. He may just burst his stomach yet, the way the elven leader laid into him.

Steve threw his shoulder back and into the chest of the Southling holding him. He broke the grip the elves had on him, shattered one elf's arm, and got to his feet long enough to, very nearly, drag Ge'elaphi away. Four elves were on him in an instant. Their massive strength overcame him.

Ge'elaphi stepped away to allow Clint a chance to breathe again. The Avenger hissed through his teeth as the pain blossomed across his nerves. At Ge'elaphi's direction, his children dragged Steve further away beside the great oak and Doodle.

"You know? I'm sick of getting beat up by you guys." Clint panted. He struggled up on one elbow and looked into Ge'elaphi's face. "It's inconvenient."

Unsure what to make of the man's words, Ge'elaphi remained silent for a time. After all he had been dragged through, was it possible this man was giving him an attitude? "You have some spirit, Midgardian. I am at a loss to compare it."

"Usually, psychopaths like to tell me I have heart. Spirit's a new one. And what the Hell did I ever do to you? You drag me here, and up and shoot me? For no reason? Did I step on your favorite plant or make fun of your pants at a party or something? Don't get me wrong, it was a nice shot you got me with, but, seriously…" He sat in the ashes with his good arm dangling open. If he needed it, he could still summon his bow.

One of Ge'elaphi's countless sons shot forward, snarling at him like a rabid beast. The leader struck out his hand to keep the boy back.

Clint forced a smirk. "Down, boy. What, is he a first generation twice inbred? He's got your nose. I bet you're proud of that."

Haladarrel shot a look at Clint. Was the man truly determined to get himself murdered? After all they had done to save him? Behind him, Steve entertained the same inclination at first. But he also remembered something. Tony hadn't come back. Clint was nothing if not fantastic at stalling people. Was this his play? Was he working Ge'elaphi's nerves in hopes that Stark would return in time to back them up? When Haladarrel's eyes cast back at Steve, the captain tried as he might to make the elf understand.

_Stall,_ his look conveyed_. Be patient. Wait. Trust Clint_.

Haladarrel focused on Doodle for only a moment after he finished with Steve. The elder elf sat in a wallow of pure misery. Never had he ever expected to live in an age with elvish hearts the color of Malekith's pitch. His only home was out of reach. Only a few days ago, Southlings, and evil elves, and inbred children were mere ghosts in his dreams. Faced with all this, he simply melted. Haladarrel's heart pulled for him.

Clint missed these observations. He had a single object on his mind, and that stood before him. This fake king of a fake people, striving to destroy all the good in Alfheimr, was nothing the archer would stand for. He was an Avenger, as much now as ever before. As long as he still breathed, he was going to keep fighting in his own way.

"Set the tree on fire." Ge'elaphi ordered.

Without reservation, the Southlings set to it. They rushed to the base of tree with their torches lit. Burning arrows launched through the air as Doodle watched the only home he knew be ravaged by the flames. Despite the Southlings holding him, he jumped to his feet as if he may stop it. His cries echoed in the air.

Ge'elaphi lifted his voice above the wails of the mourning elf. "To lose one's livelihood, physical possessions, is the root of this society's malevolence. We care nothing of the things tying us to this plane for all shall be destroyed in the flames of coming war. And we shall rise as victors, the new race, above it all. What we do is a kindness. All lives lost before the Ragnorak will be blessings."

He lifted his hand and indicated the old elf. "Release him to his materialistic ideals. Seal him inside."

"NO!" Clint screamed.

Haladarrel tried to protest but found a fist in his jaw. Steve nearly grabbed his shield, but was beaten into submission. The three were helpless as Ge'elaphi's children dragged the elder Doodle to his home. The peaks of red and gold light clawed toward the canopy and filled the world with embers.

* * *

DOOOOODDDLLLEEE!

i am such a mean, evil author. this next chapter will continue to bring the Avenger out of Clint again.

_Next time: Fear the Lightning_

Please, pretty please, review!


	19. Fear the Lightning

Did someone ask for a song? How prudent of you!

* * *

**Chapter 18 –Fear the Lightning—**

Tony dropped his hands, allowing the two elves to stand on their own feet before he set down just ahead of them on the path. Though he wanted to make the return trip straight back to Doodle's grove, he and Steve both agreed he was needed more on the coast. Someone in this realm had to let the ruling body know about Ge'elaphi's plots, and frankly Tony was the fastest among them. He just had to figure out which way to go.

"Do me a favor, and don't go storming back into the crazy camp. I put my team on the line going down there after you." Tony said, sliding his faceplate up to see them clearly.

Faraday and Linnor both seemed surprised.

"I do not understand what it is we even found. They were Southlings, no doubt, but wilder than any I have before known. Beyond that, the violence of our chase . . . I have been in battle with Thor against the Kel'elandil. Even they held no such fury in their sights." Linnor said.

"Yeah, well, these are special crappy varieties that would prefer to eat small children." Tony replied. He folded his arms. "Look, I need to find the royal pair. Point me in the right direction."

"They have not been able to leave the coast. Our king was struck with a—"

"Venom thing, yeah, whatever, I know. Look, if you've got some little green men or a talking raccoon hiding in the trees someplace I suggest you get them out here because that powder keg is about to erupt in a bad way. Point me in a direction."

Faraday extended his arm southward. "Follow the path for another league, it will veer sharply and the right sided fork will bring you to the coast. Stay along the water until you make the camp."

Tony lifted into the air. "How long is that going to take?"

"A day at the least to reach the camp. A second to return with even the fastest of the riders. Those who travel on foot may take much longer." Linnor told him.

So much for bringing the cavalry, Tony thought. He had assumed they were much closer to the encampment than that. If any of Ge'elaphi's men found his team before then, there was nothing Tony could do about it. He wouldn't even know whether they were safe or not until he flew back, two days from now.

"Stay out of sight, and try and find some help or something useful. Don't get yourselves killed, because these guys will go that far."

Faraday and Linnor both nodded. "We will do what we can for your trapped brothers until your return."

Tony blasted into the air and bent the sound barrier as he headed in the direction of Earthenden. Properly warned, he thought the two may take his advice and keep out of general view. It shocked him to his core how trusting the elven race was of each other. Even faced with the drawn blade of an enemy Southling, it never occurred to Linnor or his brother that harm may come to them. They had complete and undying faith in their race as a whole.

_Humans aren't like that. We're almost the exact opposite of it._ Tony didn't even trust Clint not to accidentally break his nose when they sparred together. _What would Midgard be like if everyone had that same level of trust as the Alfheimr elves?_ He shook his head, dropping his faceplate back into place. Earth. He meant to say Earth. The last thing he nodded right now was to start up that old realm trick of forgetting his home and friends.

Two days of straight flying. He wondered if his suit could take it. Beyond that he worried that his body might drop from under him. Clint was feeling better, which made him relax a little more. That terror that kept him awake for days on end began to ebb away and little else besides exhaustion replaced it. His stomach growled, protesting at its lack of a proper meal. He knew he was dehydrated, having drunk less than a few swallows of water since leaving the Faramir tree.

Need to keep going. No rest. No breaks. The other's lives depend on this. He told himself as he powered above the Elven Way. Ahead of him lay their salvation. Little did he know the converging fronts between himself and that rescue.

He saw the first sharp bend and made to curve into the turn when the blast of a horn forced him to stop. He pulled up to a halt and hovered over the fork in the Elven Way as he looked in either direction.

"JARVIS, analyze. Was that the same sound as before?"

"According to audio algorithms the intonations of the two instruments are not a match, sir."

He waited, considered moving, listened. After a few seconds, the sound erupted again. It was louder than before. He tracked the timbre and switched his display to infrared. The trees gave off a considerable interference but he realized early on that faralirs had a much higher flare of heat signatures. He scanned the trees to the left and right, then behind up the Elven Way. It was possible Linnor and Faraday encountered trouble again and were calling for his return. Torn, he continued to hold out and wait.

A third sharper blast exploded. This time he did have a position lock. A line of seven faralirs crashed through the path ahead, fanned throughout the woods and on stone path of the Elven Way. They approached from the south east, a considerable distance to travel if they were Ge'elaphi's outriders. Tony flew forward to meet them half way. If they were unfriendly, he could handle seven alone.

He had no reason to worry.

The riders pulled up short from their full tilt runs. The great striped, spotted, and solid cats clambered against the stones path for purchase beneath their claws. Massive antlers extended in deadly blades above their heads. At once Tony knew these riders were on the right side of the elven laws.

"He-fearen! Elhi me a'engeli!" _Hold you ground! This may prove friend._ The closest rider exclaimed to the others. With a single smooth vault he dropped from the shoulders of his cat and strode to where Tony hovered. Two shimmering tri-colored swords hung from his waist and rattled against their scabbards. He certainly looked prepared for a fight, if not a war. He extended a hand outward, swept it to the left and let the arm drop.

"Greetings. You are a visage I do recognize, in reputation alone, however. The Metal Light. Odin's Armor and friend to Odin's Archer, Shield, and Rage. If it is the coast that you are if search of, then I entreat you to end that search here. I have come myself from Earthenden."

A wave of relief hit Tony like a tsunami. He dropped to the ground level. The other elves seemed to take their direction from the speaker across from him, so Tony focused on that. He was not the strongest looking elf among them, and when they stood across from each other, Tony was even looking down on him. He'd gotten so used to Haladarrel and Doodle's height it was strange to see an elf shorter than they were.

"Never knew I got my own viking nick name." Tony said. "I'm Iron Man. I think I know who you're here to find."

The elf agreed. "Your friend, the archer. I know he resides in a tree off the Elven Way, thrust into the sky by the artisans of Earthenden. They have come to me the day before last after parting your company and warned me of all that has befallen. I wasted not a single rider. I bring all of the might of Alfheimr at my back."

Tony didn't know what to say. He didn't even remember the name of the two elves that came to help them after Doodle begged. He knew the other homes in Woodrenkell evacuated in the wake of Ge'elaphi's coming forces. To know that they had the wherewithal to not only save themselves, but find the one help the Avengers needed most urgently, blew his mind.

The elf smiled. "I can see this surprises you. Be of good cheer." He parted the deep V of his tunic and displayed the healing wound on his side where the unmistakable slice of a blade curved along the flesh. "I am the king of this realm and I am well aware as to what I face at the end of this path. Rest assured this insurrection is not to be taken lightly. We have come to crush this cancer in my people and return the harmony we have lost."

Rinon inclined his head, stepped away and grabbed the scruff of his faralir. Swinging back up behind the animal's neck he nodded at Stark. "Lead on to this war front and we will save your archer. For all of Alfheimr."

"Best news I've heard! Let's get this party started." Tony replied. His infrared screen lit up with the legions of faralirs riding in Rinon's wake. Ge'elaphi may have had the upper hand temporarily, but it didn't come close to the veritable army mustered here. In a fit of sheer bravado, Tony flicked through his AC/DC tracks for a little inspiration. He shot through the tree line again, the lyrics of his favorite band heralding the way for the Elven riders.

_Just keep coming  
__And put your hand out to me  
__Cause I'm the one who's gonna make you burn  
__I'm gonna take you down  
__…  
__Shoot to thrill play to kill  
__Too many women too many pills, yeah  
__Shoot to thrill, play to kill  
__I got my gun at the ready gonna fire at will_

:(:):(:):

"You dare speak such words to the god who will have your entrails fueling my fires?"

"I think it was Steve who coined the phrase 'There's only one God', and I don't think he dresses like you and goes around having sex with his kids. That's just disturbing. Did Zeus do that one? I don't know. I never finished grade school."

Another fist collapsed Clint's solar plexus. If he hadn't ruptured something in his gut already, he wasn't far from it. He had to find an opening, had to get this psychopath angry enough to make a mistake. All Clint needed was for him to turn away. Just once. Above his head the trapped Doodle Bygrove screamed for release from his burning prison. The elder elf ad been thrust into his cellar, the door sealed on him, and the flames licked up the peeling bark of the oak tree. Haladarrel never stopped trying to get to him, despite the array of new wounds he sported for his attempts. Resigned to the inevitable, he collapsed on his hands and knees, sobbing soundlessly as the flames climbed higher.

"We are gods here! And when I force that Lakeheed devil to set your head at Odin's feet we will be all that remains. The superior race Alfheimr always intended to have."

The elves that held Clint up, threw him to the dirt. He curled on the ground, panting for air as his fingers slipped into his pocket. One arrow. One shot. He had to take it.

"None can interfere with what mastery has created here. Thousands of years of careful attention and precise breeding" Ge'elaphi stepped away from him to trace a hand along the shoulder of a younger daughter. His touch was as sensual as he wanted it to be, displaying for all of them the depths of his depravity. Indeed he made no attempt at all to hide it.

His move gave Clint the opportunity he needed. He called his bow to his hand, popped an extending arrow from the clip in his pocket, and tried a move he'd only ever done in his previous circus life. Clint didn't often use his non-dominant hand in the field, but he was trained to if the situation called for it. Modern bows weren't typically made to be ambidextrous, and none of Clint's bows were. As for using his right foot as a bracing point? That was entirely his own.

He pointed the toe of his right foot into the handgrip of his bow, fed the arrow nock onto the nocking point with one hand, and pulled back the string. When Ge'elaphi turned back, he faced Clint, lying on his back with his bow extended between his toe and his left fingers with the arrow set to impale the leader. It wasn't easy, but he could hold that pose until kingdom come if he must. The burning oak threw its hellish heat into the air and the cries of a dying elder split the night sky.

Ge'elaphi looked disappointingly at him. "Ah, the bow of Sleiphner."

"Let them go and I'll let you live." Clint ordered. No waver existed in his voice. Despite the pain inflicted, he was in complete control of himself.

"Let me live? And how does a Midgardian expect to snuff out the life of a superior race?" Ge'eaphi took a step toward him, making Clint' shot that much easier.

Clint pulled back a little more on his bow. His collapsing arrows had the potentially to do just that. He wanted to be positive it left his bow with enough force to take the leader down long enough to give Steve and Haladarrel a way out.

"Let them go. Keep me. And I will let you walk with both your frontal lobes intact." Clint clarified. "I don't know what it looks like to have a brain dead elf drooling into his morning tea, but I'd be willing to share that moment with you."

Another step forward. He was getting too close for comfort. He meant to force Clint's hand. "And you shall hope to deliver this justice? In thought that none may arise as a replacement?" He extended his arms to indicate the legions of inborn elven souls. "For three thousand years they have been trained in the ways to complete our life's design. Without me this goes on. Stronger. More powerful. We cannot be removed. We are everyone. We are the future of life itself."

_Cut off one head, three will take its place._ Clint thought. It reminded him so wholly of Barney and that organization ruing his life back on Earth that, for the briefest moment, he forgot about Alfheimr. Pepper. Bruce. Steve. Tony. Thor. Natasha. All the people that mattered in his life. All the ones he swore to write off, never see again, and get away from. That was over. He was going to fight. For himself, and for them, this battle had just begun.

As Ge'elaphi threatened another step closer and Clint's fingers began to slip against the string to release his arrow, a clap of thunder and lightning split the skies. Clint felt something in his skin, pulling at his very cells. The familiar feel of gravity lifted, shifted, and rushed across him in a hot wave of magnetic pulses.

Another clap of thunder.

Rain began to pound against the canopy.

Clint smiled against the string of his bow. "You aren't afraid of lightning are you?"

* * *

What will happen? who will live and who will die? And what is going on in HYDRA that the team has no idea about? Stay tuned!

_Next time: The Grace of the Swordsman_

Please review!


	20. The Grace of the Swordsman

For those that know more about Clint's comic history, you may understand the significance of the "swordsman", for everyone else, please enjoy the fun!

* * *

**Chapter 19 –The Grace of the Swordsman—**

The very air between Ge'elaphi and Clint exploded with the force of the Bifrost opening between Asgard and Alfheimr. Clint palmed his arrow tip, but banished his bow away. Ge'elaphi was thrown back with the force of the Bifrost's energy. The thunder and lightning increased to a deafening crescendo. Rain poured like a deluge from the skies. As the Bifrost closed, five forms appeared in the Asgardian Runes. It was Thor, the Warriors Three, and Sif.

Thor, smiling with the grin of a saint, addressed Clint. "My friend! How long it has been! I searched you out in all of Midgard and could not recover your whereabouts! I thought to go to Asgard and – "

"No time, Thor!" Steve cut him off. He summoned up his inhuman strength and, in one fell swoop, dislodged the chains he'd been circled with. He threw his fist into the face of the closest Southling, and drove a knee into the next. He ran for the Southling holding his shield, explaining as he went. "Evil elves, uprising, and venom blades. GET CLINT OUT OF HERE!"

The Asgardians broke apart, needing little more information besides what Steve alluded to. Sif, spying the struggling Haladarrel, went to him first. Hogun and Thor parted to little wars of their own, and Volstagg swung his broad ax against the Southlings over Clint's head. Fandral stooped to Barton and got the archer to his feet, not expecting the pain or resistance he was met with.

"Odin's beard, brother, what the devil has happened to you? Can you walk at all? What makes you cry out thus?" Fandral expected no answers to his question, but he pressed them despite that fact. Clint could hardly manage to walk. The minute he was upright, even the tight bindings across his stomach weren't enough to keep his internal bleeding at bay. He nearly passed out right in the Asgardian's arms.

Terrified for him, and with Volstagg set to clear a path, Fandral rushed them away from the heated center of battle and into a line of tents erected by the massive pyre at the foot of Doodle's burning tree. Fandral drew one sword and cut down the elf across from him, then entered the nearest tent with Clint on his arm and ran his blade through the three others he encountered there. He drew the tent flap closed and set Clint down on the rags arranged on the bed of a faralir fur.

From outside, an elven blade rammed through the tent cloth in order that it may pierce the occupants within. Fandral repeated the action, skewering the wielder before dropping to one knee at Clint's side.

"What is it that ails you?" Fandral begged to know. Seeing Clint clutching at his stomach, he searched for blood there.

"Have to . . . have to calm down . . ." Clint tried to explain through his clenched jaw. "Elaren. Venom blades. They . . . those things got me with an arrow. Split my . . . split my shoulder open."

"Elaren?" Fandral repeated, trying to remember the stuff. Venom blades were particularly nasty sorts of evil he'd rather avoid than face himself. He did know of something that may help, whatever it may be that ailed the archer. "Hold fast, do not sway. Sif holds a vial of the Flaming Falls wherever she travels. Asgardian waters will make this right."

He unsheathed one of his blades and set it in Clint's palm, forcing the fingers to close around it. "Do not hesitate to use my blade. My strength, I lend to you. Remain but a moment, Sif will return in my stead."

Asgardian healing. Clint wanted to groan in relief at the thought. That was precisely what he wanted. Leave it to Sif to not only appear just when he needed her, but be prepared for the trip as well. She couldn't come a minute too soon. Already he felt himself growing worse again. A tickle formed in the back of his throat that threatened to form a cough. He felt a dampness in his core that was both painful and throbbing. Something inside of him had sprung a leak and, without help soon, Ge'elaphi may just get his wish...In front of Asgardian witnesses, no less.

Something entered. Clint' eyes flew open as he saw the tattooed, gangly form of a Southling elf. Clint forced himself upright. He struck out with the leading edge of Fandral's second sword, and caught a chunk of flesh in the Southlings middle. The head of a spear thrust through the creature's back, severed the spinal cord in half, and drew out again so the body may drop of its own accord. Sif stood behind the Southling, her spear dripped in its blood.

"Someone is causing a stir." She said, kneeling at his side.

Clint fell back into the faralir fur. "Sif, you have . . . no idea how . . . how glad I am to – "

She grabbed a vial from the pack on her belt and opened its corked end. "Yes I do. All men appreciate seeing me appear. This is not much, but it will prevent your death and rejuvenate your health, which, I fear, dearly needs it."

Clint took the water and, without reservation, threw it back like a shot of whiskey. Rather than drink all of it to soothe his raging internal injuries, he handed the rest back to Sif and indicated his shoulder wound. If this was the only opportunity he would have at the Flaming Falls, he wanted at least to make sure he was out of danger of losing his arm. The healing waters of Asgard were amazing wonders of creation. He'd watched as Fandral, nearly dead from injuries suffered at the hands of a psychopath, was healed miraculously by touching the waters to his wounds.

Thor, too, endured similar treatment during the Frost Giant war when he returned nearly dead from battle. For a Midgardian, it may not completely heal what ailed him, but it could make a massive impact. In only a day, the waters of the Flaming Falls had repaired Tony's blasted-through wounds, though it took days to fix Clint's brain injury suffered from a gunshot.

Sif remained at his side as she waited for the change to occur. Seeing the state of his injured shoulder was enough for her to guess exactly what ailed him. She did not mention how lucky he was to even be alive.

After a few minutes, Clint's taut body began to relax. She could physically see the change in him as the Flaming Falls water eased his woes. Her smirk remained, pulling at the corners of her mouth. "While we wait for you to retreat from death, tell me about this evil Alfheimerian you have apparently fallen in with."

:(:):(:):

Tony flew ahead of the faralir riders. His repulsers could do a better job at getting him back into the Southling camp than their cats could. He stayed off the general path, and used his triangulation to get back to Doodle's hidden tree. A bad feeling had settled into his chest the minute he blasted out of the hiding place. It would have been so easy to just waltz right back into the center of the camp with his guns blazing. But the violence, and sheer man-power behind Ge'elaphi's forces, risked overwhelming even him.

The closer he came to camp, the harder a sudden rain shower hit. The force increased until the rain hit with enough fury to reach the forest below. Where there was rain, there was thunder, and Tony knew at once exactly who could claim responsibility for that. If Thor was in the camp, then only one of two things could have happened. Either he realized at last where the humans had gone and came to Alfheimr to help, or he was summoned by Ge'elaphi's men to identify the body of Clint.

Tony pushed himself harder. It couldn't be the latter. Not after all they'd done. If Thor was here, then no matter what, Clint's position had to have been discovered. Whether he was in enemy hands or not, he wavered on the knife edge simply being moved. Thor couldn't take on all the Southling forces himself, not even with the aid of Haladarrel and Cap. They needed his help immediately, and, more than that, they needed the entire force of Alfheimr coming up behind him.

He didn't concern himself with the first line of Southlings he blew past, or even the second. He wanted to get right in the center of the action to figure out what had and hadn't been discovered right away. He spotted Roger's shield and instantly went to him.

He threw his shield again, catching another Southling in the chest before catching the edge again and slamming it into the face of a second. The fight was in full swing. Hogun and Volstagg teamed up, taking on the farther waves of inbred elves as Fandral's sword cut them down to size. Haladarrel and Sif made their way up the burning tree to rescue the elder elf trapped inside. Thor summoned his lightning, slammed it into the earth, and pushed the forces back enough to give them room to fight.

"STARK!" Steve shouted in shock as Iron Man hit the dirt beside him. "What are you doing here? I sent you for reinforcements!"

"They're coming. Where's Clint?" Tony blasted through two elves and spun left as Steve went right. They covered each other's backs as a hail of venom arrows descended from the sky.

Without lifting his head over his shield, Steve threw out his hand to indicate just ahead of them. There, Tony encountered a sight that in his years of knowing Barton, he never expected to find. The archer moved with all the fluidity of a dancer. He held a sword in his non-dominant hand that Tony recognized as Fandral's. His right arm was out of his sling and though he still didn't use it. Something must have happened to get Clint back on his feet again. Tony never knew the man was masterful with a sword. Cutting left, then right, he spun and took up the distance between himself and a line of Alfheimr natives and wasted no time in engaging again. Clint moved like a man possessed. His health never looked more improved, though he still wore the tight bandage across his middle.

Tony left the captain to his own battle and simultaneously lifted, then landed, at Clint's back. He covered the exposed skin of his friend from the arrows that sought to take him again.

"Since when could you use a sword?" Tony shouted above the fray.

Clint ducked beneath his arm in perfect synchrony with Tony's own repulser blast. It was freeing to fight beside each other again. Even if Clint's feelings for them had changed somewhat, their ability to move with each other did not. They anticipated each other's strikes and defenses like the longtime friends and comrades they were.

"I never told you." Clint said. He produced a knife, from where Tony couldn't hope to guess, and drove it into the chest of a Southling. He reversed the hilt of his sword, skewered the assassin at his back, pulled it free, and shoved it into the neck of another. He moved with the grace and fluidity of a seasoned swordsman.

"You neglected sharing your Samurai Jack ways, yeah." Tony crow-hopped left, grabbed the arm of one, swung him into another, and buried a repulser blast into the both of them. The force of the strike shot them across the landscape until they rebounded off Cap's waiting shield.

Clint and Tony turned at the same time. Face met helmet. Clint was smiling again.

"Trick Shot may have taught me all there was about archery, but the Swordsman trained me the most." Without even looking, he produced another knife from his waist band, sliced it through the air, and hit the center of an elven forehead thirty yards away. "It's a winning combination."

"You thought that would impress me, didn't you?" Tony smirked behind his faceplate even though Clint wouldn't be able to see it.

"It should impress you, because I'm totally awesome."

"I did notice you aren't dying."

"Asgardian cures."

"Good old Thor."

"Good old Sif."

"Ladies have absolutely everything in their handbags, don't they?"

"Including mystical healing water from the only pool in all the Nine Realms that could keep me from bleeding internally? Yeah, they're good like that."

Rejuvenated, the two turned in the same direction and, with Clint's borrowed sword and Tony's repulser, they charged another line of Southlings. This is what they missed from each other. Years of training on the same mats, of practicing each other's idiosyncrasies, made them masters of their mutual techniques. Clint knew without thinking what Tony would do next, and similarly Stark did the same. They fought, blasted, sliced, spun, dove, lifted, and fired away, all as the Southling world descended around them.

The archers all took to the trees, hoping the height would give them a vantage point over the Avengers and Asgardians fighting below. Steve saw them gearing up for attack and covered the distance between himself and his fellow Avengers. He slid like a ballplayer stealing second, and dragged Clint to the ground beneath him. Tony's arms closed on them both, and the captain raised his shield above their heads. With the Spartan phalanx, the men survived the onslaught of a thousand venom arrows.

Thor saw the move to dispatch the three, and set to dispelling another attack. He thrust Mjolnir in the air above them and directed a bolt of lightning down against the Captain's shield. The massive explosion of raw energy electrified the air, and Southlings fell like drops of rain.

"Tony, that back up I sent you for?" Steve asked, letting the sentence dangle in the air. He went back on offensive. Hogun and Volstagg's position had been cut off by the massive Southling numbers. He had to back them up, or lose two Asgardians at once.

"Trust the process!" Tony replied.

"It's hard to trust your processes!"

"Yeah, well – "

"TONY!"

Stark's heart leaped into his throat at Clint's shout. A faralir had broken through the tower of flames heading for the canopy above them. Wild with rage and fright, the creature jumped for him. Clint's sword could only do so much against a beast of that mass. He dropped the sword, called his bow to his hands and extended one of his few remaining arrows.

Tony raised a hand to shoot the faralir down, but the massive force of a pike threw him sideways. Three of Ge'elaphi's sons slammed down on him with their blades drawn, determined to make it through his plates of armor.

Clint nocked the arrow. He raised the bow and tried to pull the string back to his face. His nearly healed shoulder jarred, his hand shot forward, and the arrow went wild into the dirt.

"Hawkeye!" Tony screamed.

* * *

_Next time: All the Might of Alfheimr_

Please review!


	21. All the Might of Alfheimr

I'm so happy everyone is loving the last chapter! It really means a lot. And i know this story is long, but I really appreciate you have continued to read and stick with me the entire way through!

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Chapter 20 –All the Might of Alfheimr—

The line of faralirs leaped through the air like the wall of an oncoming tsunami. Their elven riders lifted on their backs, trails of flowing, braided locks creating comet tails behind them. Seeing those great cats in action was a moment of pure, deadly beauty. The initial seven came, just as Rinon said they would, and crashed through the towers of climbing flames surrounding the interim camp of the fallen elves. They gave no warning of their arrival, no blast of trumpets, or announcement. They simply came like a flood and encompassed everything that was before them.

Rinon led the attack. His own faralir, a creature striped from nose to tail in deep hues of ebony on a field of sunset red, was the greatest cat among them all. Its name was Litherli, the Little Rage, and it stood up to its title and more. Faralir were not tamed creatures. They bonded, much like the dire wolves of Odin, to those they trusted, and a mutual respect kept them and their masters inseparable. Rinon himself rode into the faralir bearing down on Clint. The sheer mass of Litherli shoved the smaller creature to the side and forced him off his path. Litherli hissed and spat, swiping its claws against the younger animal's face and forcing him to back down. Still wild from terror, the faralir bolted out of reach and continued to run blindly into the wood.

But Rinon did not cease there. Leading the charge himself, he took on the full weight of Ge'elaphi's men. His twin blades shimmered with life as they seamlessly glided through his opponents and felled his brethren on all sides. Clint's own display as a swordsman was one thing, watching the talent of an elf at work introduced an entirely different level of unmatched skill. He was relentless, fast, and precise. Nothing withstood him.

When the area began to thin, he directed Litherli back to the relieved Barton. Rinon dropped from his faralir's back beside Clint and inclined his head. "Great archer, I am at your service. Ben'edehe fe me enal." Direct me as you will.

Clint exchanged the Alfheimr pleasantry, nursing his shoulder with his good hand. He kneaded the bone beneath his skin to try and free the harsh tension there. "My king, a pleasure to see you again. And fantastic timing."

Rinon smiled. "I pride myself on such a trait."

The six riders with the king needed no instruction to set to their deadly task. With blades and bows at the ready, they began to make short work of the remaining Southling forces. In the distance the silent earthquake of the coming army rumbled ever closer.

"You are well?" He asked.

"As to be expected. Thank you." Clint said, dropping the hand to his side. He didn't want Rinon to worry about the pain he was obviously trying to hide.

"Is that his majesty?"

Clint and Rinon both looked upward to the wiry, tall form clinging lengthwise to the branch of a low hanging tree. His face was coated in ash and most of his hair had been singed into an up-do of its own designed, but at least he was alive.

"Bygrove!" Clint exclaimed, surprised.

"I say, Doodle Bygrove, is that you I spy on that tree? Whatever do you call me majesty for? You surely were king before ever I took the post." Rinon said.

"He was what?!"

With the help of a royal's faralir ripping two Southlings off his back, and a repulsor making short work of the third, Tony found himself disentangled at last. He headed over and interrupted the little powwow.

"If you two don't mind, I think there are a bunch of hillbilly elves still trying to kill us. Or, namely, you." He said, poking a finger into Clint's chest. "So either you make yourself useful, or scram under a bush."

"Please, do neither. My people have come. This battle is now ours." Rinon told him. He nodded once to Litherli, and the cat launched back into the fray, fighting with all the ferocity of a starved tiger. From the east, the second, full force of the Mainland elven clans came. Leading the charge at nearly the height of the massive faralir's were four slender forms. Two white, one grey, and a black. Dire wolves. Pups of Freki and Geri, and the brothers and sisters of Clint's own deceased friend.

With cold, calculated gazes, they launched beyond the fires and into the heart of the battle itself. Teeth snapped together with the coil of their jaws as, like a single force they stampeded over the battle field. Behind them came the other outriders, then the foot soldiers, trackers, and king's guardian. Linnor and Faraday too, arriving astride another elf's mount, reentered the fray with weapons drawn and mercy far from their minds.

Hundreds, thousands, and then tens of thousands entered the expanding field of Woodrenkell. There was no compassion for the sons and daughters of Ge'elaphi. With a single, decisive blow, the very backs of the Southlings broke.

Standing beside Clint, Stark, Steve, the Asgardians, Haladarrel, and Doodle, the king watched as the transition took place. The royal forces overwhelmed the field instantly. Already, the fires began to die as the tree limbs were burned back, letting the storm rains in. With their part finished, Clint's allies at last got the respite they so desperately had searched for.

Haladarrel wavered on his feet first, and collapsed to the ground on his rear. He set his weapons down at last. Taking his cue, Doodle sat as well. His home was gone, burned to a crisp in the fire to the great oak. Nothing remained of the life he had built. That was a mighty realization to bear, and he preferred to face such a thing sitting down. Clint, unsurprisingly, sank next and, before long, the entire company watched in abject detachment as the world around them ceased to burn.

:(:):(:):

In generations to come, what occurred in the aftermath of the battle became known as the Morïlae alu Vêṻa Mahḕ, or The Speech on the Moon Moss Knoll. The Alfheimr king crushed Ge'elaphi's uprising in a single, overwhelming force. Those that fled into the night were rounded up by the king's wolves, or outriders, and forced into captivity where, soon, their lives would either be granted or extinguished. Given the extreme circumstances with which the king found himself subjected to, he would have thought a swift dispatch of justice was the best course of action.

All of Alfheimr wanted the horrid business behind them. But the king was not a young king. Having spent the totality of six hundred years on the throne, he knew well the consequences of a fast iron hand that thought little of mercy. So, before anything could be decided over those that remained, he must first speak to the leader of it all.

Clint, Haladarrel, Doodle, Stark, Rogers, Thor, Sif, Fandral, Hogan, Volstagg, Rinon, and Fehreh all sat in a ring beside the charred remains of the great oak tree designed by the savior Earthenden elves. The same elves had devised the table and twelve chairs that rounded it just for the meeting at hand. To Clint, it was nothing short of King Arthur's court. Reylano, Linnor, and Faraday, three of the countless outriders sent to find the archer, stood before them.

"His body has not been found." Reylano reported for the three. "I have searched the dead myself, and there is no trace of Ge'elaphi. I fear he plans to hide in the Southlands where he knows we will not go."

"He got away?" Steve asked, somewhat stunned.

"Not very far." Linnor replied. He lifted a knife from his scabbard and stabbed it into the moon moss covered table. "The Southling's blood is on that. Mro, your wolf, confirms the scent of him."

"Is that what I think it is?" Clint asked, smiling.

Linnor swept his red locks back over his shoulder with pure suave bravado. "If the archer believes it is a venom blade, then he would be correct. Even now, the leader risks his own demise in attempting to escape us. Either he will make for the southern lands, or we will find him in the midst of such a journey with his eyes bleeding and lungs set to burst."

"How hard would you like us to chase him, my king?" Reylano asked, attempting to hide his disdain for the Southling.

Rinon suppressed a self-indulgent gratitude at the dramatic turn of events. Surely there were none in Alfheimr who would object to running Ge'elaphi down at a break neck pace until the elven lord succumbed to his own venomous plots. But what sort of king would that make him? Leniency, he decided, was a difficult situation to bear in light of the atrocities committed by Ge'elaphi's hands. Then again, he did wish to preserve life as much as he had been taught to for so very long.

"Take the fastest mounts and bring him to Lakeheed if he survives this." Rinon decided. His wife threaded her fingers between his. "If he does not come willingly, if he resists and puts even a single life in danger, then leave him to his own demise."

Reylano accepted the charge and, with Linnor and Faraday in tow, they set off instantly. Haladarrel stood as if he may follow, but Rinon lifted a hand to stop him.

"Oh, as for you, I believe a repose is within your rights. Now sit, and discuss what must be settled between these emissaries of Asgard and ourselves." Fehreh told him.

Surprised at the invitation, Haladarrel lowered back down.

At Rinon's request, Arahaelel brought forward the cup he had her pour for them. He held the chalice between Thor and himself, lifted it, and brought it to his lips to drink. He then handed the cup to Thor, who held it without drinking. Rinon meant to speak his peace. As Asgard's emissary, it was Thor's duty to hear him out, and either accept his terms or deny them. Rinon, always a mild mannered speaker, raised his voice on this occasion for those subjects watching to better hear. History was being written in this singular moment.

"Thor, Son of Odin Allfather and heir to the throne of Asgard. I welcome you to this realm of Alfheimr. Despite the trouble we have fallen on, we greet you as, not only our ally, but as one of our own. It pains me, these fissures widening between our people. But I would have you stay your judgment until you hear the account of what has befallen here today from the mouth of your own." Rinon extended his hand to Clint.

Tony smacked him in the leg to get his attention, and the archer stiffly sat up again. Despite all the energy he'd gleaned from the Asgardian waters, he still felt out of shape. The way the troop was arranged, sitting together as if they were on a picnic, disarmed whatever shyness Clint might have entertained when every eye in Alfheimr turned to him.

"If you're looking for the truth, then I'm lucky to be alive." Clint told him honestly.

"How did you happen to come here?" Fehreh asked him gently.

Clint had almost forgotten that part. The one that made the least amount of sense in all he had been through. "The Bifrost. I was in Germany back home. The Bifrost took me, and the next thing I knew the three of us were neck deep in venom arrows. I took a bad one right off. I've been on my back virtually ever since." Clint indicated the healed scar by tracing a finger over his exposed shoulder. Doing so reminded him about the bandages on his stomach. He decided it was high time to get those off and began to unwrap himself.

Thor confirmed it. "I went in search of you. It took time. Our friend, the doctor, discovered the path of the Bifrost. The runes read that of Asgard. I assumed you had been taken there, though I could not but understand why."

"We never saw you." Sif clarified. "I saw the Bifrost open once. Then nothing. No one came, no one departed either. We have been campaigning for Heimdall's release but have gotten little leeway with Allfather. In his absence, another less trusted soul has been charged as watcher of the realm."

"It took a great deal of convincing and shouting before I was at last taken to Asgard myself." Thor went on, filling in the gaps both the Avengers and elves missed during their perilous days in Woodrenkell.

"Finding your location took a considerable effort without Heimdall." Fandral added.

"So we put ourselves in a bad way, and did something my father found little humor in and broke our good friend from his bonds. Volstagg took care of the watcher, Heimdall located you on Alfheimr, and as soon as we could, we came here." Thor finished.

"The second I came to Alfheimr, Thor, I was attacked. Those elves," Clint extended his arm to take in the legions still being sorted by the Mainland elves, "have dogged me every step of the way. I died three times, at the least, from what they shot me with. They didn't just guess that I was going to show up and took a lucky shot. They knew it."

"A fact I have feared the validity of." Rinon broke in. Their eyes returned to the elven king. "Such knowledge has come to me from the Southling who attempted to take my life. It is my understanding that Ge'elaphi and his followers wished to incite a war between our people. Given the frayed alliance we have suffered since the reemergence of Malekith, I believe his attempts may have been fruitful had he succeeded in his plan. The death of Odin's Archer on the soil of Alfheimr . . . It is what we all have done so much to prevent. His survival, I must credit to these elves, Haladarrel Bywater of Outer Glencove and his kin of Woodrenkell, our former king, Hyalthaley Bygrove."

"Wait, your name's not Doodle?" Tony asked, the disappointment wasn't absent in his voice.

Bygrove inclined his head a little at the address. "I have not gone by Hyalthaley since the years I spent in Lakeheed. I am of Woodrenkell, and that is all."

Thor shifted the chalice in his hands. A part of him wished he had dragged Odin from his throne and to Alfheimr for this summit. So much had been revealed he hardly knew what he should do. "Hyalthaley is a very ancient name. You ruled Alfheimr before my grandfather ruled Asgard."

"That is true."

"My friend, that time was nearly six thousand years ago."

"Seven, but I have ceased to count." Doodle replied with an unassuming shrug.

"Hyalthaley has a unique perspective on what has occurred these last days, for it was he who challenged the uprising of the dark elves and expelled them from our lands. During those ancient days, we found peace." Rinon said.

"And have remained at peace ever since. Until this day; a day I never thought I would have to relive."

Clint couldn't believe his ears. This ancient history they spoke of was thousands of years in the making. Doodle had felt such a shock at what transpired around him. The Avengers could see how deeply it affected him to know what the Southlings had done, and what they continued to do. Knowing that he was once the king of Alfheimr, made everything fall into place.

"I will rely on your judgment for what we do with these Southlings. I am only grateful to have your guidance at my disposal, where you had none. I do not plan for this to ever befall our nation again. It ends here." Rinon told him.

Doodle nodded in acceptance of the charge. "I have little left in Woodrenkell. I have lost my home, my studies, which were thousands of years in the making, mind you, and now leave little behind. It would be acceptable to return to Lakeheed and see its current glory."

"Son of Odin," Fehreh said, leaning toward Thor. "This is what our people plan. Let us deal with this threat that has swept across our shores. But for everything we accomplish, it will do nothing for what has triggered this uprising on Asgard. Without the Bifrost, Barton would not be here. We can judge these Southlings, but we cannot touch what Odin controls on Asgard. And for the archer's sake, I think that should not be overlooked."

"I'd appreciate it." Clint said. "And my body would too. If I have to keep getting transported across the universe just to get shot at by the natives, I think I might start disliking interstellar travel."

Tony smiled and whispered into his ear, "Look at you using big words."

Clint made a private, discourteous, sign at him.

For all they spoke of, all the revelations that were made known to the leaders of the two most powerful realms in the universe, the decision remained with Thor. He could either drink the offered truce Rinon gave him, or he could spill it on the soil like Clint's very blood and declared the relations between Alfheimr and Asgard were at an end.

They had been allies, for so long they had been. Alfheimr's warriors were nearly as renowned as Asgard's own, and if Thor's world had not taken the role as guardians of the worlds, then surely Alfheimr would have. They were equal in so many ways and that, in itself, created the tightest of bonds between their people. The very evidence of it lay with the four dire wolves sitting among them. Laicë, Bruev, Gelphi, and Mro were all descendants of Freki and Geri, the original dire wolves of Asgard. The most recent, Laicë, bonded to Rinon the moment she saw him at the Spring Banquet. She'd taken a liking to Clint when they sat, and had yet to leave his side.

"Laicë, the dire wolf beside you my friend, is the sister of your own." Thor said to him. It sounded strange to the others, as if he hadn't kept up on the depths of the conversation they discussed.

"Is she?" Clint didn't realize he was stroking the wolf's head until he'd been singled out. He stopped and retracted his hand. Thor didn't know he'd lost Arrow.

"My mother loved her best. Considered keeping her, though she had not bonded the way a dire wolf does. The elven king and queen were invited to the Spring Banquet. When Laicë saw the sovereign; they were a match at once. I believe my mother cried."

"She is my first." Rinon explained. "There are four on Alfheimr. Three belonged to kings of our past, ones who have left this world and returned to the heavens. They are loyal to the crown, and worthy companions. I would trust them with the life of a child. But Laicë is my own. And it is a bond as I have never before understood. Even now, I dare say, I cannot explain it."

None could see the gentle hand Steve placed on Clint's arm. The description was perfect and tragic all at once. It highlighted the impact a dire wolf had on one's life, but at the same time showed what Clint may never again have. Rinon didn't know that, and neither did Thor. But Haladarrel and Doodle both turned their eyes downward in respect of the words they knew must surely pierce the archer's heart.

"They have talents, these dire wolves. I remember Laicë's very clearly. She understands the truth in words. To speak a lie would bring a vengeance of her I would not wish on an enemy of mine." Thor rounded up his train of thought and rested his gaze on Rinon and Fehreh. "You would not risk falsehoods in her presence. Therefore, I trust that you will handle the matter of your people in the best way you understand. And I also verify that, with the aid of the greatest king Alfheimr has seen in its past, you will make the choices that best fulfill the needs of your safety and those of the other realms. My mother wept of joy the night Laicë chose you, great king, for she knew that, despite her love, she could not compare to the compassion in your own heart. As Bygrove was the greatest king in this realm's past, you are the paramount to his works. His council will be helpful, true, but it is in your judgment I place my whole-hearted faith."

He raised the chalice between them, fully prepared to make his decision. "Let my blood as the son of Odin certify this bond between our people. We are allies. Now, and until my soul be released into the stars. I will hold to this truce I drink. And whether I accept Asgard's throne or not, those that do must honor my words here. I will leave Volstagg and Hogun here in your charge as emissaries between our worlds. If you choose to wipe these leaders from your land, they will be the commissioners of such transport. Use them how you can. Fandral and Sif, I place on Asgard to quantify the depth of my people's defiance. I mean to root out this evil which has used the Bifrost against us. Their judgment will be harsh, I assure you, for daring to incite war between us. Midgard is in turmoil, and my oath as its guardian takes me there again. I will ferry the passage of my friends from this realm. That is my bond."

Thor put the cup to his lips and sipped the wine within. He then passed it to Fehreh, who drank on behalf of their people. Terms were accepted.

The Morïlae alu Vêṻa Mahḕ was over.

* * *

_I really do love the laws and history I've written for Alfheimr. And Doodle, what a surprise! Perhaps one day i will go back and write about the Dark Times when Doodle, as king, expelled the Dark Elves from the face of Alfheimr. I imagine he was a much different sort of Elf then. He had a wife he mentioned, but no children, and he passed the throne to a trusted second before hiding in Woodrenkell. Why? was it guilt? Did he fear something he was forced to do? Maybe we will never know, I, his author, certainly have no idea...yet..._

_Next time: Midgard's Turmoil, Barney's Vengeance_

Oh yeah...can't forget about Midgard...didn't we leave a psychopath still alive down there?


	22. Midgard's Turmoil, Barney's Vengeance

So now we come full circle!

Only a few chapters left!

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Chapter 21 –Midgard's Turmoil, Barney's Vengeance—

Clint always felt his goodbyes were rushed whenever he left the other realms, and this time was no different. Thor had alluded to a considerable trouble breaking out in Midgard, and his opinion stated they should set off immediately after the summit concluded. He remained mum as to the exact nature of that trouble until they reached Earth again. His face, though, said it all. Clint had spent enough time running from the problems he left at is home; he had to go back.

Doodle took his hand first. The elf drew Clint into an uncharacteristic embrace. He cleared his throat as he untangled himself from the old elf. Doodle straightened very tall in his attempt to suppress his sudden emotional display. He smoothed the bottom of his tunic with one hand, but the pieces began to fall away from where the fire nearly burned him.

"I will miss this adventure, I think." Doodle told him with a smile.

"I don't think you're being completely honest. I think the minute you get me out of here, the whole planet's going to give a big sigh of relief." Clint replied.

"That, I do not doubt." He drew in a little more closely, and whispered where the others would not hear. "Do take care of that grief of yours. And rely on those friends you have so effectively made. I have lived long enough to counsel you on the wisdom of not letting such alliances go to waste."

Clint clapped him on the arm gently and nodded his head. "Benel e mena, Doodle."

"Benel e mena, ackarae."

Haladarrel came behind the elder elf and repeated his embrace. "I will not hide the enjoyment I will have at your vacating my realm until this business is long behind us."

Clint smiled. "I don't doubt it. You're going to Lakeheed then?"

"I have been commissioned by my king, so I will go. He means to make me guardian of the queen."

"I'm hoping that's a good thing."

Haladarrel shrugged slightly as he considered the promotion. He glanced to their left. Following his gaze, Clint saw the beautiful guardian of the king, Arahaelel, commanding the men beneath her.

"There are benefits to joining the clan at Lakeheed. Some of them I am looking forward getting to know better."

Clint couldn't blame him. "Good luck with that. And Haladarrel . ." His expression changed, trying to show the depth of his feeling. "Thank you. If you hadn't-"

Haladarrel brushed the air with his hand and gently rested it on Clint's shoulder. "My duty is to king and crown. You were the most troublesome Midgardian I have ever endured the company of, and I have been changed from meeting you. Benel e mena, fair thee well."

"Benel e mena."

Clint watched while Haladarrel moved on to the only other palace guardian to get better acquainted. In his inattention, Volstagg, Fandral, and even the dragged-into-the-mix Hogun pounced on Clint all at once. Volstagg, as the initiator, lifted the three others over his head and proceeded to the squeeze the very life out of them.

"What a merry war!" Volstagg shouted in his jolly humor. "We should entertain such fun more often, my friend!"

"My shoulder! Volstagg, put me down! I missed you too, now put me down!" Clint shouted, hardly putting up a struggle. Volstagg released him at last. Barton rotated his shoulder in its joint, wincing as the newly healing bones scraped together.

"It brings me glee you are not deceased." Hogun said with his traditionally severe face.

"Really? You could have fooled me." Clint jested with him. He held out the borrowed sword for Fandral to take. "Thank you for the support."

"If I had any indication that you were a swordsman as well as an archer, we would have entertained some merry bouts between us. I saw that turn you made. Quite masterful, though nothing like the skill of my own hand." Fandral replaced the sword in his scabbard.

"That sounds like a challenge." Clint said.

"It should have." Fandral replied with a smirk.

"And one that will not occur any time soon." Sif interrupted them. She extended her hand to Clint, and they clasped forearms. "Take care of your strength. You still have healing to do. You may have avoided death for now, but if you hope to shoot again, you must take the time to find your full health."

"You should ask Haladarrel how good I am at doing that. I'm sure he has some strong opinions." Clint said, but understood the advice. When the faralir charged him, his instant reaction was to pull his arrow and take the creature down. Not being able to even pull his bowstring back scared him more than the beast's charge. He'd faced his worst fears in his past, and overcame each one. The only one he had never experienced was the loss of his bow arm for a prolonged time. His shoulder, though at least intact now, was going to take a considerable amount of therapy to get back into working shape. He had a long road ahead of him.

"Do your best." She replied, and followed the other Asgardians away.

"Clint of Barton?"

Clint smiled for a second at the rendition of his name and inclined his head down for Rinon and Fehreh. "At your service, sir."

Fehreh handed him a small woven pouch. The contents of it looked and smelled sickeningly familiar. "The last thing you wish, I'm sure, but I believe it may help you mend." She said.

Clint tucked it into his pocket. For some reason, in front of her he realized he was shirtless and felt somewhat self-conscious over it. Perhaps it was because she devoured him with her eyes in the way only the Alfheimr queen could. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"I suppose it would be hospitable to offer you some clothes for this journey. However, that would mean losing the admirable view I am faced with. I believe I will refrain." Fehreh smiled.

Clint looked at Rinon, who seemed completely immune to his wife's flirtation.

"She is harmless, I assure you." Rinon told him. "I do not wish to keep you. I only hope to convey my regret over what my people have done. When this business is behind us, I will invite your return. I hope you accept."

"You couldn't keep me away." Clint replied. He reached over and stroked his hand along Laïce's muzzle. She leaned into his touch at first, and then crashed herself against all of him. Clint stumbled off balance, but righted after a moment.

"She remembers you from the banquet, I believe." Rinon stated.

Clint didn't comment. He enjoyed the small moment between himself and the dire wolf who recognized him. She backed away to Rinon's side like the loyal wolf she was, and sat herself down to look at him. Clint didn't want to lock eyes with her, but it was unavoidable. Arrow's had been dark, like staring into two black coals. Hers were the same crystal of their mother, Geri. And like Geri, they pierced right into Clint's very soul. In the brief moment they shared contact, Laïce understood something within him. It was the loss he attempted to hide. A truth seeking wolf, and a sister of his own Arrow, most certainly couldn't be fooled into believing the brave show Clint put on. Her ears flattened, her shoulders stooped, and her muzzle dropped to the ground.

Rinon, misinterpreting the signal, rubbed his fingers across her scruff. "We will see the archer again. Do not fret."

Laïce did not look at Clint again.

Barton said his goodbyes to both the king and queen of the elven world, waved a final time to Haladarrel and Doodle, then joined the troop of Avengers and Asgardians awaiting at the Bifrost opening. Fehreh drew in close to her mate and rested her head on his shoulder.

"There is sorrow in him." She whispered as the Bifrost came.

"I felt it as well." Rinon confirmed.

"Do you think he will return to us? I would be very sorry if he did not."

"Edṻ wethri'ami maien na n'quel?" Who is to know? "These Midgardians have their own trouble, and a considerable amount of it. Our own worries continue between these Southlings and Asgard. I fear this may not be the last our realm sees of this subterfuge."

Fehreh pulled slightly away. "Surely you do not doubt Thor's bond?"

"Thor, I do not doubt. But Thor is not Odin, and Odin is not himself. We must prepare for anything that may come. And I fear for our future if we do not. Our time of peace has closed. We must prepare. Strengthen. A warning of Asgard's force should not strike fear in the hearts of our realm. We must have the ability to match them, should war one day come." He clasped her hands in his. "Fear has no place here, and before my reign ends, I will see to it that nothing the other realms bring against us will succeed."

:(:):(:):

Expecting a temporary stopover in Asgard during their transportation through the interstellar bridge, the Avengers were even more surprised when the Bifrost disappeared, and they opened their eyes to a typical city on earth. Apparently Thor considered even the briefest moment in his original home was too long to spend away from the Avengers' current predicament. An event he still delayed elaborating on. The four stepped out of the rune circle and took in the surroundings.

"D.C." Steve said, recognizing the cresting marble dome of the continental library not far from their position.

"Thor, why are we in Washington?" Clint asked.

"It is good to see you intact, my friend. I have searched tirelessly for you so that you may ease this predicament." Thor deflected.

"What's happening, Thor?" Steve asked with more force.

"There has occurred an incident involving the seat of this realm's king being set upon by an evil few know."

"There is no king of America. Are you talking about the president?"

Clint looked at Tony's face plate. "Tony?"

"JARVIS is updating me on all the latest news and according to recent files – whoa!"

"I don't like whoa's." Clint said. Steve tuned in also.

"Yeah, you shouldn't." Tony pushed up his helmet. "Your brother's getting a little press. He stormed the White House with a legion of HYDRA assassins, and currently has the heads of state at gun point. They've been in there for thirteen hours."

Steve's jaw unhinged.

"He has attempted to exploit the damaging past of Lady Widow." Thor went on. "She has defended herself to the leaders of your men, though little faith rests in her ability. There was none, but myself and Banner, to stop this swift force. Yet, our help too, was refused. Though we have not stopped our search of you, this matter has caused great strain. When it was discovered that you may have retreated to Asgard, I left at once to recover you."

"We have to get there!" Clint exclaimed.

"_We_ do. _You_ don't. No one needs to remind you that you were dead most of yesterday." Tony corrected.

"That's my brother, and I'm fine now!" Clint argued.

"I saw you try and pull your bow. You most certainly aren't fine!"

"Might we," Thor shouted, stepping between them. "continue this disagreement after we return to the colorless home?"

Tony extended a finger in Clint's face. "No. Down boy. Stay." He dropped his faceplate and blasted into the sky in the direction of the White House.

Steve nodded to Thor who left after Tony. The captain didn't mind taking his and Clint's time to reach the scene of the action. Every extra minute Clint had to circulate the healing waters around his system, the better off he was. Steve had no doubt the man would try to weasel his way into the midst of the hostage crisis if he could. First, Steve needed more information about Barton's brother. To do that, he had to start with the one conversation he had avoided since the moment he found out about Arrow's death.

They headed off down the main street at a jog. Steve spent a considerable amount of time in the district of Columbia over the years, and knew his way around blind folded. Clint deferred to his lead.

"Clint, I think we need to have a talk." Steve said as they navigated through the relatively empty side streets. Most likely the National Guard and local PD had the entire city on lock-down. For a crisis thirteen hours in, most of the ones breaking curfew were probably already heading for the surrounding states to avoid potential fallout.

"I never like when you say that."

"Yeah well, there's no better way to phrase it, either."

"Shoot."

They turned toward the National Mall and cut a path in the direction of the damaged Washington monument. Already it had been repaired once in the past ten months. Now, all the new work had been cut in half by the wing of a plane. The rest of the charred remains of the quinjet lay half sunk in the reflecting pool. It was impossible to tell who had been piloting; HYDRA, or whatever remained of SHIELD. They passed the American Indian Museum and cut across to get to the opposite side of the green. Clint had no doubt Steve would be at the White House already if he hadn't decided to pace himself for Clint's sake.

"What happened between Charles and you on that mountain? Full disclosure. You're the only one who has any idea what we're going up against in this."

"I told you once what he was willing to do, how far he would go."

"And your mentor said he'd burn the world away before he'd give himself up. Why keep them hostage for this long and not just kill them outright?"

Clint slowed. He didn't want to admit how out-of-breath he felt. After all, he hadn't exactly regenerated all of his blood cells within three hours. "If you want an endgame, Cap, I don't have one for you. I don't know how far this rabbit hole goes. I found Towns, that's as high up as I went. I think Barney was the boss over her. But whether or not someone's pulling his strings, I don't know."

"Go back to the beginning for a second. Where did you start?"

"I started on my cover first, and spent the first month relocating a few times and losing half a dozen tails. That's when the media was hottest. By the second month, I got to be old news and started doing low level surveillance in New York at the field office that worked with Agent Morrissey. From there, I found a few other possibilities, who I followed to their offices in D.C., not far from here actually. I had twelve working pseudonyms and got myself into the door of a lot of parties with a lot of different faces. I spent New Year in a closet at a 'Hail HYDRA' party and found my first Level 9 agent there. In February, I was finally back in New York doing recon on a barbershop which funneled tech in and out of the basement. I went by your place a few times."

Steve didn't know that. For some reason, despite being aware that Clint remained in New York mostly, he had assumed the archer stayed as far from the team as possible. Realizing that he was within walking distance of Steve's apartment countless times, moved him.

"By this time, I found out Blackstone was only one branch of the organization. It handled the technology. White Hall had the higher agents, the Green Room funneled cash flow, and Red Water was the hit squad. I got a lead on a meeting for some agents from White Hall, and it was my chance to get higher than the Level 9 agents I found. Agent Towns walked into that meeting."

Steve stopped, and Clint did also. "Towns? Towns went missing before the Triskelion fell. I heard a rumor that someone had a scrub out order on her, and a SHIELD agent murdered her. The body was never found."

"She was alive when I left her."

"When did you see her?"

"She stabbed me in the back after taking my partner hostage."

Steve had to interrupt him there. "Which was who? Clint, who could you possibly have trusted over us? Was it Coulson?"

Thinking about it retrospectively, Clint was almost embarrassed to say. "Spider-kid. Peter Parker. I needed camera work when I was in New York. I looked him up in November. I knew I had to get down to D.C., but I also needed someone to keep an eye on the New York agents. He had a camera, and could climb walls."

"And no one would suspect him."

Clint shrugged. "He's on a SHIELD watch list, but we had lay-off orders from Fury. No one was going to go after him. Apparently, though, he was hot-dogging it one night, got overzealous at the White Hall meeting, and Agent Ward picked him up. I had to break him out or risk losing all the work I did. So I took a risk and breached their meeting room. I think I must have left some DNA behind. The morning after that meeting is when you called to check in. It took two weeks, but I finally got Fury out to my place in person and showed him everything I found. He said you and Nat were already dark on the hostage crisis with Sitwell. And Sitwell was the one who reported that my brother was in Germany."

Steve felt like he could fall right over. "The same Agent Ward that tried to kill you once? And the same one you saved in Libya?"

"I think you know how I felt about him being HYDRA."

"And you trusted Sitwell?"

Clint shrugged. "Fury trusted him. I had nothing on him. Not yet. Why?"

"Sitwell was one of HYDRA's liaisons."

"Well, that makes a lot of sense in retrospect. They were already onto me. Sitwell set me up with that team in Germany. Fury handpicked them, but I bet Sitwell had something to do with it too. I went, thinned the team out along the way, and checked in with Fury every twelve hours. Then he went dark."

"That's when the Winter Soldier took him off the grid. Almost killed him. I found him bleeding in my apartment."

"I finally got through after a few days of zero contact, and when I did, guess who picked up?"

"Barney."

"That's when the world dropped out from under me. I don't know who sent in the kill order. Most likely he did, but the agents turned on me. I dropped most of them myself, but Arrow took out the last when my hands were tied. I had – ". An invisible hand reached up and clamped down on Clint's wind pipe, emotion cutting off his words in mid-sentence. It was silly of them to stand there and discuss the past when they should be moving. He started walking again to pick up the pace.

Steve was patient with him. It didn't take long before Clint opened up again.

"I had just told him he was a good boy. He started to walk to me when the shot rang out. Sniper rifle, at least a .50 cal, probably a Barrett M82. Hit him broadside twice from the trees away from us. He died in my arms. Barney wanted me to watch it. He hit him where he wouldn't die right away, too. It was slow, painful, and he let me just sit there and watch it. I called Tony. I called Heimdall. Screamed for whoever would listen. Then Barney called me on the SAT phone to gloat about what he'd done. Right then I knew I wanted to end him."

Clint considered telling Steve over what he saw next. About how Arrow's body disintegrated before his eyes and became a wolf made of light. How the wolf's spirit howled with his own heart and dashed for the stars. But he decided to keep that private. They may lock him in the looney asylum for it.

"He's my brother, Steve. You'd want to do anything you could to save yours. I know what he did and what he's done. He has the potential to take this to the end, and the patience to do it too. He's dangerous, and unless someone who knows that deals with him, a lot of people are going to end up dead. But there is good in him too. I might be able to bargain and get some hostages out."

To that, Steve had a very strong opinion. "No, you're not going in. Tony made that clear, and I'm supporting him in it. I'm fine with you negotiating, but it's going to be from inside a bullet proof van with my shield over your head if that's what it takes."

Clint wanted to make a witty retort, but missed the opportunity. They'd been lucky thus far getting halfway to the White House without so much as a mall cop crossing their path to cut them off, but that changed the minute they turned onto 15th Street. The road ran parallel with the White House and harbored the right hand blockade of police, army, and National Guard keeping the HYDRA crew at bay. Thus far, they had succeeded in remarkably little. In the original assault, nearly forty five officers were murdered on the front lawn. The body count within the White House was unknown. The status of the president himself, unknown. All attempts of either breaching the area, or making contact with the head of it all, went unanswered. The White House had gone dark.

Reaching 15th Street, Steve and Clint were stopped mid stride by the assault rifles of a SWAT team. Both Avengers complied by lifting their arms skyward, but it was Steve who did the talking.

"We're Avengers, gentleman, just trying to do a little good here."

The assault rifle never wavered from their faces, though one did lower to allow its bearer to stride forward. The unnamed SWAT cop hiked Steve's arms up and proceeded to pat him down. The effect bordered very near the ridiculous. Anyone with half a brain knew Steve's greatest strength rested in his use of the shield, or his brute force. Not only strong, but agile. If Steve wanted a weapon, he had free choice from those around him.

Clint came next. The officer jacked his arms up higher, and he winced with the strain on his shoulder muscles. His pat down, though he lacked a shirt, revealed more interesting than Steve's. The bag of herbs? Pot. The clip of collapsing arrows? Contraband. His identification? The washed up bum of an ex-Avenger who everyone with a television knew as a drunk? None of his winning attributes got him any favors with the team.

"Y'guys are making a mistake." Clint told them through his teeth.

"Somehow, I doubt that." The sergeant said. Over his shoulder, he spoke to the other men. "Someone run this guy. I bet we can find something outstanding to hold him on."

"Hang on a second!" Steve exclaimed. He stepped forward, fingers squeezed tight to triggers, and he almost let them shoot him just to prove how absurd they were. "This is Clint Barton, the brother of the guy in there now. He has a unique insight in – "

The sergeant cut him off. "Oh, brother? You're the brother of this psychopath? Get this guy in cuffs, I've heard enough."

"Sergeant, you're making one big mistake, and right now we don't have time for this!"

Two members of the SWAT team grabbed Clint's wrists and drew them behind his back. The archer considered resisting if he was a little less gun shy, but he could tell this team was full of itchy trigger fingers waiting to let loose. He preferred to keep as much of himself intact this morning as he could. He left it to Steve to make the first move, and the captain would have too if their party wasn't interrupted by other members of the team.

Sam Wilson, or Falcon, landed in the midst of the circle with wings out. Directly at his back, the Iron Patriot touched down also. Preferring to keep the distance between cops and Avengers, Falcon didn't fold up his wings.

"Cap?" Lt. Rhodes said, extending a hand. Steve shook with him. "I'm glad to see you in this. Tony radioed that you were on your way."

"Rhodes, good as always. Mind supplying us with a key?" Steve replied. He hiked a thumb to Clint, who lifted his hands to display the metal bracelets.

Rhodes actually hesitated.

Feigning hurt over the fact, Clint's face visibly sank. "Rhodey, really? Don't tell me you think I knocked up that Jersey Shore girl too?"

Sam didn't stifle the snort in the back of his throat.

"And who are you supposed to be? Robin?" Clint asked Sam.

Sam threw his hands at Steve. "What, you don't talk about me behind my back to your friends?"

"For the past four days, we haven't been friends." Steve replied.

Rhodes looked down and didn't reply to Clint's entreaty.

Barton's disappointment showed. "Oh, that's cold. I went to your niece's birthday party, and practically invented pin-the-tail-on-the-unicorn. "

Rhodes smiled behind the shadow of his helmet. "Yeah, well, my sister didn't think you using shivs as tails was cute."

"Regular butter knives weren't working. I had to make them a little sharper."

"You ate half of the piñata yourself."

"She shouldn't have filled it with fruit rollups. I warned her not to."

"Lieutenant." The SWAT sergeant interrupted the conversation to nowhere. Rhodes was the highest ranking official beneath Captain America. And though he'd given little credence to Steve's opinion, he did defer when it came to the Iron Patriot. Rhodes tapped Sam, and the Falcon had Clint spin around. He took the handcuff key from the nearest officer and released Barton from the locks.

"Don't make me regret this." Rhodes warned him.

"I feel like that's a challenge."

"And where is your shirt? I mean, come on man."

"An elf took it. Don't you like my sexy chest?"

The troop walked through the circle of SWAT members as if they no longer existed. With Sam and Rhodes both as liaisons, they had no trouble getting by the police barricades into the very center of action. There were twelve road blocks and check points. The endless supply of news vans were relegated to the sixth most barrier and everything within the fifth barrier all the way to the White House gates was straight military presence with a little D.C. blues thrown in for flavor. Flashing red and blue lights dotted the landscape like cars in a funeral procession. No one moved, few spoke, and the mad dashing of a new hostage crisis had fizzled out. These men were getting tired.

Four tanks were transported to the north lawn with an unknown amount staged at the other compass corners. The National Guard spared no expense for the occasion, and every trooper from D.C., Virginia, and Maryland were on hand to stand, lean, or hold up gun lines. Clint counted fourteen snipers within a single block, and those were just the ones he could pick out. Another Quinjet's smoldering remains came to rest in the Kennedy garden. Half of an engine, from that plane or another, collapsed the front entrance to the White House itself. Whatever fires it lit, died out on their own hours before. Everything else certainly looked like a war zone.

Along the way, Steve introduced Sam. Clint mentioned stealing his wings in the future, to which Sam replied "HAH! You can try!". A third challenge in as many hours. Tony had made an initial flyover of the White House situation before alerting the Lt. that he would make a quick trip to the Tower for some much needed supplies. He must have broken every sound barrier they had a speed limit for, because as they strode into the initial staging area, Tony was already back, and out of his iron suit. He picked a clump of clothes off the fold-up table beside the command post and threw them to Clint.

"Tony, did you fly all the way home to get me a shirt?" Clint rubbed the fabric between his fingers. It felt...strange, somehow, but he couldn't place it.

"Two. And they're stylish. And you and I have been wearing the same clothes for five days. It does us all a favor." Tony passed the comment off.

"Actually, I haven't heard from any of you in two weeks." Sam pointed out. "I don't know where you've been, but as you can see, a crap-ton has happened."

Clint pulled on the tank top. The early days of April retained some of the crisp claws of an undying winter. Tony had thought ahead and brought a grey sweatshirt also. Clint put it over the tank top, taking care with the low range of motion his shoulder decided to give him. Tony, too, had taken the time to freshen up. He even switched suits to one not completely covered in venom arrow tips.

"Clint?!"

Barton recognized that voice at once. He never got the chance to look at Natasha before she already had him in her arms. Public displays of affection was not her thing, especially when it was with someone she actually cared about. For a mission? With a potential mark? That was different. She could turn up the flirtation heat until men's skin burned from it. With Clint, their affection was made for shadows and broom closets. When she pulled back, her hands gripped the sides of his face.

"I thought you were dead. When we didn't find you up there, I thought you – I . . . Banner found Arrow's blood, and you were just gone. I thought Asgard took you because … " She didn't finish her thoughts or put words to her fears. Clint never considered the other half of his disappearance. The last time he was in a fight like the one on that mountain, Asgard had whisked him away. He'd taken a bullet to the head, and it was only through Asgardian cures he survived at all. During his time on Alfheimr, it never occurred to him what those left behind must think, or how it looked to them. Arrow's blood, Clint's body missing. It was like the past repeating itself.

"I'm sorry, I didn't even think about it like that."

"Of course you didn't, because you're an idiot!" She growled at him. Natasha removed a spare sidearm and passed it to him with a few clips of ammo and gun holster. It was as if she knew he'd need the extra backup. He didn't miss the little glimmer of light that shimmered from her neck as she moved. He reached between them, and held the silver arrow necklace hanging there. He'd given it to her for Valentine's Day during his undercover mission. He used to be the one wearing arrow heads around, it was strange to see the shoe on the other foot.

"This looks nice on you."

"Stop changing the subject, I want to be mad at you."

"Then be mad."

"Is Arrow on Asgard? Is he all right?"

That, Clint didn't answer. His expression told her not to pry any further.

"What's wrong with your shoulder?"

Clint dropped the necklace and backed away just a little. "Nothing. I'm fine. What gives you the idea something's wrong?"

"He's lying." Tony said, not looking up from the laptop he'd stolen from someone. Steve poised over his shoulder with Rhodes and Sam.

Natasha's eyes narrowed.

"I mean, I'm fine . . . now." Clint tried to cover.

"Still lying." Tony mercilessly corrected.

"Did you expect anything different?" Bruce said. He came from behind them carrying a clear bin of electronics. He set the entire thing on the table and began to extract the gear from it. When Sam moved to help, Bruce shoved the entire box at him instead and went to greet Clint. He passed over a radio pack first, and waited for the archer to situate it.

"We missed you, Clint." Bruce said, shaking his hand. "Place isn't really the same without you scaring the Hell out of us all the time, or eating all the peanut butter. Even if my waist line looks better without Bagel Thursday."

"Get set for that to change." Clint said.

"Natasha's right. You did screw up your shoulder. Your grip's different. What happened?" Bruce dropped Clint's hand and went reaching for something higher up, but Clint stepped out of his probing grip and went to stand behind Sam. The table served as a barrier between Clint and the concerned Natasha and Bruce.

"Seriously, I'm fine." He continued to perpetuate the lie. Hopefully the more he said it, the more they would believe him.

"He took an arrow high up by an elf on Alfheimr, got shot full of venom, and died three times in the last five days." Steve said, watching Tony work. He never caught the dirty look Clint shot his way, but he could feel it on his face like a hot breath. "Don't give me that look. They were going to find out from Tony or I, one way or another."

Sam stopped laying out materials. "An elf? You actually said an elf, right?"

"And not one of Santa's little helpers." Steve clarified.

"Can I go next time?"

"Did you miss the part about dying three times?"

Sam's reply was cut off by Thor's entrance. The Asgardian hit the ground beside the table with enough force to dislodge the sensitive equipment. Everyone made a grab for something as Steve righted the table again. No one complained.

"My friends, I have surveyed the ground and find nothing more amiss in this city. Our sole base of evil lies in the colorless house."

The captain straightened. He indicated Sam and Natasha. "Get to the East Wing, tell me if you can find someplace for us to breach that doesn't include taking out a lot of these guys. Thor? Take Lt. Rhodes and assess everything on the West. Tell me what's changed in the last few hours. Tony and Banner, you two get a command station running for us to work from. We have a lot of catching up to do. I'm taking Clint with me, and we're going to see if we can make remote contact with his brother inside. No one goes in." His eyes fell on Clint hardest of all. Everyone agreed to the terms and split up.

Steve and Clint headed for the staging area, a place where the only direct line into the White House was kept, and the many department heads fought over its control. With the rampant military presence around, they found it surprisingly easy to locate the stage. One SWAT battalion van, backed up against the rear of a M58 Wolf tank with a pop-up command post, stretched behind them both. Two phones sat in the direct center, untouched by the police commissioner and five-star general who both argued over the head of a CIA tech analyst. Officers in NSA flak jackets lined the three other communications vans, which were all backed into the same communication ring. What the two Avengers walked into, was nothing short of a cock fight.

The five-star rooster puffed out his chest and displayed with the best of them. He was determined to call the shots on the mission which had, thus far, gone nowhere but belly straight up. Two extraction teams had been sent in, and simultaneously lost in a hail of blood and gunfire. Their military backup was crushed, twelve snipers were killed, and for good measure, the head of the national treasury was thrown from the top of the White House to his death. That blood was on their hands, and no one wanted to take the blame single handedly.

The police commissioner was dressed in his Sunday best, white gloves and all. He'd been pulled from an award ceremony the night before when the attack hit. And for the inconvenience in his plans, he figured he should be in control of communications inside for all it was worth. Thus far, Charles Barton had refused to cooperate, or speak, with anyone on the outside. It was thirteen, going on fourteen, straight hours of complete silence.

Clint saw and heard it all within ten seconds of listening to the war. Steve knew as well as he did the hope that those two could get together and bring out a peaceful resolve to the crisis inside, had died a long time ago. No time like the present to jump into the thick of it.

Steve stuck his hand between the two, by way of introduction. He forced a hand shake with the general, then the commissioner with enough Captain America force to get their attention on him and off each other. Behind their backs, both men shook the grip off like the sting of a too-hard-caught baseball.

"Captain, I had no idea you were available for this." The general said cordially.

"The situation is well in hand." The commissioner replied. Then his eyes hit Clint, and his face went blood red. "What is that man doing here?"

"Hawkeye has a unique insight on the situation – "

"Like Hell, he does! He's probably working for that terrorist!" the commissioner cried. The CIA analyst below them turned slightly to get a glimpse of Clint, and turned back.

"Captain, I trust your opinion, but this I can't permit. I know the things this guy's done, and the last thing I need is a loose cannon on my hands!" The general backed up his counterpart.

"He's a drunk and a drug dealer, and why you even dug him back out of that hole he threw himself in, I can't imagine." The commissioner said. "I'm sure I have enough outstanding warrants on him to get him back into a prison where he belongs."

"I'd like you to find a single thing you could hold me on." Clint countered, attempting to keep his voice even. He expected hostility, but this was a level he couldn't have imagined. He turned himself into one of the most hated men in the world for a reason. Now that HYDRA was out, his life was supposed to return back to normal. These two reminded him just how far he let himself fall down. Cable television trumped up every charge against him. He'd been too careful to let any real law breaking happen, (besides the occasionally stolen and returned cars) but made no move to defend himself against the false accusations. Coming from the reputation Alfheimr and Asgard elevated him to, this shallow Earthen look made his blood want to boil.

Steve could sense the tension radiating off him. "Whoa! Everyone just relax. We're not here to slap cuffs on each other. Hawkeye's been working undercover. My word should be enough for that. Where do we sit with Charles Barton?"

"You expect us to just tell you everything in front of this guy?" the commissioner asked.

"I expect you to treat him like—"

The CIA analyst jumped from his chair as one of the two dedicated lines on the table began to ring. Everyone in the vans poured out. All eyes hit that ringing cell phone. No one made a move to pick it up.

"Is that him?" Steve asked.

The general beat the commissioner to snatching the cell phone.

"Let me talk to him." Clint said.

The general nodded to the SWAT crew, who gave a thumbs up. They were recording. He hit the enter key and waited half a second before introducing himself. "Mr. Barton?"

Clint winced. That was not going to go over well. The only Mr. Barton Clint and Charles knew, was their father. Unsurprisingly, the phone disconnected instantly.

"Mr. Barton? Mr. Barton, are you there?"

Clint rubbed the spot between his eyes. "Don't call him that. He hates that. Call him Barney."

"And how would you know – "

"Because he's my brother!" Clint shouted, letting the anger ebb in for a moment. Steve made to stop him, but retracted his hand. Clint could handle himself.

The second phone rang. This time, the commissioner snatched it up and, waiting for the SWAT boys to give him the go ahead, started speaking. "This is Police Commissioner Brown . . . Excuse me?" His attention flicked to Clint for the briefest moment.

"He wants to speak to me. Give me the phone." Clint demanded.

He ignored Barton. "I'm sorry, I can't do . . . Yes, he is here, but . . . don't do . . . wait!" he pulled the phone away from his ear and threw a desperate glance at the White House.

"Movement up top!" Someone in the crowd called out.

Everyone moved. The sea of guns rattled to shoulders, and everyone simultaneously ducked and aimed at the same time. Clint and Steve pushed in front of the others to better their view. They never expected what happened next.

Charles Barton stood on the roof of the White House with four HYDRA personnel standing in front of him. A ring of twenty hostages provided the human barrier between himself and a bullet to the head the general's snipers no doubt wanted to greet him with. He held something in the air for a moment, and then dropped it down in front of his face.

"Anyone with a clear shot, take it. Don't hesitate, just take it!" The commissioner radioed around.

"Barney, what are you doing?" Clint whispered, watching.

Steve looked at him. "Clint, can you make that?"

"The shot?" Clint already knew what he meant, so Steve didn't answer. "I'm more accurate with my bow. I can't pull it. I don't know that I'd try it with a rifle."

"Hawkeye!"

Clint blood ran cold. Barney was holding a megaphone. If he couldn't speak to Clint on the dedicated line, he was prepared to go to extreme lengths.

_"I know you are in the cluster of men who think they know what they're doing. If I don't see you walking, unarmed, on this lawn in five minutes, I will kill one hostage every ten seconds. If you don't believe me,"_ A gunshot rang out, amplified by the loud speaker. Men and women ducked for cover. Some screamed. Others sent out orders to hold their fire. The body dropped from the roof of the White House to splay at the foot of the steps. The body, clad in black mission gear, hit like a mannequin and split open on impact.

_"One of mine, for one of yours. The next body I drop will be the President's daughter."_

* * *

OMG! So much has happened! What is he going to do? What is going to happen? Will Clint's shoulder ever heal? Stay tuned!

_Next time: –All Secrets Are Out—_


	23. All Secrets Are Out

Prepare for an emotional roller coaster!

* * *

**Chapter 22 –All Secrets Are Out—**

"I'm going in there." Clint said, removing the wires and radio packs off his body. He handed them in a pile to Steve, who swiftly passed them off to the police commissioner.

"No, you are not!" Steve shot back.

"Yes, I am." Clint replied. He removed the clip from his sidearm, ripped the slider to release the chambered round, and forced that into Steve's hands as well. He continued to remove his gear, determined that no one would prevent him from getting in.

"Captain Rogers, you aren't seriously thinking of letting this loser in there, are you?" The police commissioner fired off. He dumped all the gear into the bed of the S.W.A.T. battalion van. Anyone could tell, from his cross armed posture, that Clint's decision to show up on scene and attempt to take control as lead negotiator did not sit well with him.

Steve had to work hard not to grab the commissioner by the shirt collar. "Hey! Lay off of him! He's probably the only one here that really knows what's about to go down in there!"

"Exactly!" Clint exclaimed.

Steve's attention returned to him. "I was not agreeing with you doing this, so don't try to twist my words either!"

"I'm going in. Deal with it."

Patting himself down once more to be sure no hidden weapons remained, Clint began to leave the staging area. The front gates of the White House had been blown over by the tactical van Barney's HYDRA crew brought in. Set up thirty feet from the action, was a line of police barricades and no less than forty-five more snipers. The green Arm men stood just behind the sniper line with Mac-10s and itchy trigger fingers. Considering the way Clint left his reputation in the dust when he went undercover, he doubted he was going to get past all those men without special assistance from Captain America or Iron Man. Luckily, Steve was compelled to follow him.

"Clint, you know how far your brother's going to take this, we don't. We need you out here." Steve bargained.

"He needs me in there." Clint replied, not stopping his stride. "So do you. Look, I'm going in as a distraction. You take Tony and Natasha and breach the lower levels somehow. Get the other hostages out."

Steve grabbed his arm and Clint turned toward him.

"We just got you back. We aren't going to lose you again. Not like this."

"And if he starts shooting people? What then? You're going to kill yourself because we could have done something to stop it, and we held back."

Their eyes met.

"Trust me, Steve. I'm walking out of there. Or running. Whichever ends up being fastest." Clint's utter determination cut through Steve's concern like a razor blade. They could do this the easy way, a full breach on the oval office with guns, tanks, and arrows flying, hoping that none of the hostages were killed in the process. But they could also do this the hard way. All they had to do was send Clint in there and let a mad man tear down what remained of his foundation. Clint gave up his name, status, and everything that mattered in his life, all because of the things Barney took away from him. To come face to face with that evil could not be taken lightly.

Clint wanted this. He wanted the chance to get back even the smallest piece of the brother he remembered as a child. It wasn't pride or some misplaced trust. He truly believed that somewhere in that black heart, his brother's soul remained. Could Steve blame him for that? He'd just experienced the same torn heart at the hands of the Winter Soldier. Thor even knew the reality of a brother left to rot in evil's hands. Who was Steve to stop him from even trying?

"Are you sure about this?"

"I'm sure, Cap. Surer than anything in my life. If it comes to it, I'll end him. You have my word."

"It won't come to that."

Clint nodded curtly. With Steve's escort, they cut a path through the police barricade and to the front lawn of the White House. HYDRA agents staked out the roof, lower halls, and lined every position from the rose bushes to front gates. They came prepared for a long haul.

Clint held his arms over his head. The heat of the sun blocked out by the chop-chop-chop of rotors from the three circling police helicopter crews. Standing just a few feet from Steve, he circled in place, trying to show whatever hidden circuit cameras Barney had control of that he was not only unarmed, but planned to walk in alone. Behind him the police commissioner came over the bullhorn.

"He says to take off your shirt." The man relayed.

Steve's jaw tensed. He didn't like the idea of sending Clint in there alone, but he knew full well Barney was too smart to let the Captain walk in too.

Without replying, Clint stripped. He tore off his new knit over-shirt then the black tank he wore beneath. Bare chested he raised his arms above his head again and spun in a circle. Apparently, he was just not meant to wear clothes.

"He's sending some men to pat you down. Do not attempt to move, or you will be shot. He has four sniper rifles trained on you now."

HYDRA men began to swarm around the front entrance. A few broke off from the rest and strode forward to meet the Captain and Clint.

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" The general shouted to the itchy trigger fingers.

A familiar pressure eased into Clint's muscles, dragging a wave of adrenaline in with it. He glanced over his shoulder to Steve. "Get those people out, Cap. Please."

"Leave it to us. Don't get yourself killed."

"Not planning on that."

"No one plans it, it just happens. Especially to you! So don't let it, all right?"

Clint turned forward again to meet the HYDRA crew. Without warning, Clint found the butt of a rifle thrust into his abdomen. He pitched forward. A set of hands threw him to the grass as two others searched him.

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" The commissioner screamed. The line of officers and National Guard all seemed to swell forward at once, as if each could reach out and pick Clint back up themselves. Steve, too, couldn't resist plunging ahead. The rifle-wielding HYDRA member held him off with the muzzle of a Glock 9mm in his face.

"Back off!" The HYDRA member said. He pulled down the mask on the lower half of his face, revealing a surprising familiarity. Though Steve had limited dealings with the man, he knew him by pure reputation alone.

"Grant Ward." Steve said. This didn't bode well. Already, Clint had his insane brother locked in the oval office with an unknown number of hostages, Joint Chiefs, and the President of the United States. Now he had to deal with another old enemy.

Ward smiled. "So, how's Phil? Or didn't you know he was actually alive?"

From the ground, Clint sucked in air. Ward's men threw him onto his side and slapped at his legs, looking for any hidden weapons. One pulled off his boots, inspecting them carefully before tossing them back against him.

"Nothing?" Ward asked, disappointed.

The others agreed.

"Fine, grab his crap and drag him inside. Captain, pleasure doing business with you. Now if you wouldn't mind passing along the information to the majority of the free world, that if we even see a sign of an extraction team, we will kill one of the Secretaries. Is that understood?"

"Got it." Steve watched as the men hauled Clint to his feet and dragged him off.

"Good. I'm glad we had this chat. I've always been a big fan." Ward grinned smugly and followed after Clint. He sent a dismissive, cocky wave over his shoulder that threw a burner under Steve's already frayed temper. Oh, he was sending in an extraction team all right. And when this ended, he was personally going to see that the next dark hole Ward found himself in, he was going to stay there permanently without a benefactor to bail him out.

After Clint had been taken out of sight, Steve finally tore himself from the front lawn. Who knew how this would pan out. A sudden worry gripped him, one that reminded him of Clint's sheer mortality. It was possible that the last words he ever said to the man would forever be 'don't get killed'. He wished he'd said something different, something more meaningful. As he cut his way through the sniper line again, Tony and Thor had just arrived. Tony, as expected, was fighting mad.

"He's in there?!"

Steve nodded.

Tony moved to break away from them. He had every intention of tearing the roof off with a single repulsor blast, but Steve's super strength prevented even the Iron Man suit from getting by him.

"No! Tony, give him a chance! He knows his own brother. He might be able to talk this out."

"Not everyone is Bucky Barnes!" Tony shouted back. "Clint's brother's a psychopath! He'll kill them, Steve! He'll kill everyone in there if he could!"

"That's why Clint wanted us out here. He's going in as a distraction. He wants you, Tash, and me to find another way in and get the other people out."

Sensing the internal combustion coming off of Stark, Thor stepped between them. His words were directed to Steve. "If a distraction is what our brother requires, it is what he shall have. How may I help in this?"

"Tony, grab Banner. And between you and him, figure out how to get Clint's auricular implant working two-way. Thor, I need you to get Natasha here and work stand by. I'm going to find the building plans and we can figure out the best way to breach. When Banner's work is done, I need Thor and the Hulk to duke it out precisely where I say to, got me?"

Thor slowly smiled. "This plan, I like."

"Good. Tony, Tasha, and I will go in and get all the people we can out, and take down as many agents as we can. But we need to be able to relay this to Clint. So for now, until we can get his implant working both ways, we sit tight."

:(:):(:):

"Wow, Grant, you still hit like a girl." Clint said.

Under Ward's careful eye, Clint pulled his shirts back on. He rubbed his abdomen, where he felt the raised edges of a future bruise beginning to come together. His middle had taken a beating. Well, all of him had. When this was all said and done, Clint had full intention of finding himself a hot tub.

"Since the only girl you know is Romanov, I take that as a compliment." Ward replied. He motioned with his rifle. "Lace those boots and hurry it up. I'm not your babysitter."

Clint snorted. "Really? Could have fooled me. You did fetch me like a good lil' doggy."

Ward nodded to the men at Clint's back. Three of them rushed him at once, and held the Avenger steady as Ward proceeded to abuse his kidneys with the closed end of a fist. Clint sunk down on his knees as he gasped for air. He just needed to take a few lumps to get Ward off track and not thinking straight. He wanted the man more focused on their grudge match than his job. If he could get that done, then maybe the Avengers had a chance at a positive outcome. All he needed were a few stupid mistakes from a revenge-blinded perative.

The door at the end of the hall opened, and a kevlar-clad Barney Barton strode out. His mere presence in the hallway was enough to get the arms of HYDRA off Clint. The Avenger pitched over, and squeezed his abused ribs. Ward didn't wait for him to recover. He grabbed Clint by the back of his neck and dragged him forward. They stopped a few paces away from Barney, and they looked on one another.

"Clint." Barney said with a twisted sort of relief. He swung his gun by the strap away from his chest and grabbed Clint in an embrace. From behind, Ward locked Clint's arms to prevent him from taking advantage of the situation.

When Barney let go, Clint took half a step back. He regarded his brother. "I don't know where you disappeared to, but look at you here now! I thought I'd have to blow this place up before I could finally get your attention. But here you are...here you are."

He smiled as he paused in the open doorway. Perhaps he was caught up in memories they shared. Little orphan children growing up in Iowa together as they tried to make something of themselves, countless hours bouncing late nights for the circus and running wild like teenage boys do. Clint could see all the memories hiding in there, just as he thought he would. It didn't make him rethink his purpose for walking into that building, but it did give him the little mustard seed of hope he had all but lost.

"Barney." Clint said.

The man leaned back and swept his arm into the Oval Office, indicating Clint should enter. Ward shoved him forward, but remained outside himself.

"Thank you for the delivery. Keep an eye on the place." Barney told him. He returned his Mac 10 to the front of his chest and slowly closed the door behind him.

Clint had the first real look at the severity of their hostage crisis. He admitted to himself then, how truly dire the situation was. The President sat behind his desk, zip-tied to the arms of his chair with his daughter in his lap. She was perhaps six years old at most. In a wooden dining room chair beside the president, sat his wife. She was a beautiful woman, late forties, with short red hair and pearl button earrings. She'd lost one in the scuffle of the White House-takeover.

Across from them, two couches flanked a coffee table. Four cabinet members, which included the Secretary of Defense, Secretary of State, Secretary of Agriculture, and Secretary of Homeland Security were sat on the couches. Beside them on the floor were seven others. Three were uniformed White House Security officers, one male secretary or typist, and three Clint couldn't be sure of. Twelve HYDRA personnel, with their faces covered in masks and riot gear, lined the Oval Office windows. Three inch thick metal sheets were screwed into the frames, preventing any stray sniper bullets from entering the room. One of the two entrances was similarly barricaded. With one way in and one way out, Barney had created a deathtrap.

"Smile, you're on candid camera! These Go-Pro things are just fantastic at screen resolution, y'know? I got to admit, I went a little crazy at the Bass Pro Shop and bought like fifty of them." Barney said, heading to the Presidential desk. He hiked himself up on one corner. He accessed a laptop, and hit a few keys Clint couldn't see. When he finished, he turned the screen toward his brother to show him. Using his sidearm, Barney indicated the area over their heads. Clint looked around, noticing the incredible amount of intricate wiring, signal receivers, and dishes.

"You're broadcasting this." Clint said, surprised.

"After hiding in the shadows for so long, I just needed to stretch my wings out a bit. I almost killed one tenth of the world's population. That's like seven hundred thousand people. No one had any idea I was behind it! Then I go and doing something like kidnap forty five people, and suddenly the entire world loses their minds! Where's the justice in that? I mean, I was going to kill the president before, and no one really cared."

Along with the wires for Barney's live broadcast, he noticed others. Intricate black and red insulated lines ran down the walls and under the crown moldings. They crisscrossed in tightly woven braids, before ending near three taped-together black bricks. Clint knew those casings well, and his heart almost stopped.

"You rigged the place." He whispered.

Barney smiled. He whispered beneath the sound range of the monitors. "Oh! Oh yeah, that. I did. But keep it down a little, or the hoard will panic. A hundred pounds' worth of the stuff is in here. You know how easy it is to get a hundred pounds of C4? Well, I guess that's how it goes when you invest in a demolition company in Myanmar. Sometimes people just look the other way. Sometimes, things go missing. Sometimes, they just end up with detonators attached to the walls of the Oval Office. These things happen."

He lifted his hands, expanding them like a mushroom cloud. "I could build a mine shaft half way to the earth's core right from here. You know, I don't think they have those National Guardsmen pushed back far enough."

Clint had to agree with him. That much C4, in the steel bunker Barney created for himself, would have enough blast force to blow out even the windows of the Capital Building. Anything within a quarter mile of the Oval Office risked decimation. Clint had to look away from it. He needed to focus. Now that he had a clearer picture on the direness of the situation, he had to zero in on the one person who had a chance of making this all go away. Trying to emulate Barney's ease, Clint took a few steps away and leaned on the end of the couch.

"Ok, Barney, I'm here. How can we make this all go away?"

Barney smiled. "Well, hitting the trigger seems like the easiest method to make it all go away."

"I think we'd all like to avoid that."

Barney had the same satirical humor as always. Clint wondered if this is what it was like when others had to deal with him and the Barton family attitude. Being on the other side of it was never as interesting. He tried to ease into a conversational tone. After all, he'd known Barney since the day he was born.

His brother changed topics, holstering his gun. "You were on that mountain, I know you were. You took that SHIELD team the, now dead, Director Fury gave you, which I personally hand-picked and slipped under the radar by the way, and you trudged all the way to the North Face of the Bavarian Alps. And why? Because Agent Sitwell says I'm up there?" He laughed.

Clint shrugged. "Can't a guy just drop in to see his brother?"

"And then!" Barney continued to laugh, slapping his knee, "And then you call Fury, and who picks up? Me! Man, you should have seen your face. You looked like I came up behind you and stole your favorite bow. Then, you know, the cat was out of the bag...I couldn't just let you leave. After all, I led you right into my own back door. I told those agents I sent as your escorts, that if they didn't put you down quick, they weren't going to make it out alive. But you know they never listen to me. Egos are too high. But I'm a caring guy; I felt bad leaving your dog up there all alone. So I did you a favor and put him out of his potential misery. Do you know what I said to myself? I said, 'Barney, that's your little brother down there. A guy you bled for and survived with. And you know what? I think this world can only take one Barton at a time'. That's what I said to myself.

"You see, that's why I think dad died. I think the world knew it too. They couldn't have any more like us. The world had to stop it. That's why they hit that tree, that's why he killed madre and destroyed our lives. The world just couldn't handle it. And, well, here we are."

Clint knew when it came to dealing with a hostage crisis, it was better to let the guy talk and interrupt as little as possible. He had to appear inviting, understanding, trusting. He wasn't about to share the truth with Tony, or Steve, or any of the team. He knew did know what Barney's endgame was in this. He wanted Clint dead. But it was fact. All the archer had to do was keep as many of the innocent people in the room alive, for as long as possible before that happened.

"So, Clint, you've got to tell it to me straight. That fight with Iron Man, you staged it, didn't you? I've heard all the theories and conspiracies, and in my line of work, that's all I deal in. It was staged, wasn't it? You were trying to get out. You knew about HYDRA, and you needed to go undercover."

Clint wanted to focus the conversation back onto Barney, but before he had a chance to pass it off, his brother leaped to his feet. He crossed the room and drew his sidearm. Clint moved to stop him, but the HYDRA rifles all trained on him in a split second. A warning shot whizzed by his ear and bit into the bust of President Lincoln sitting on a desk behind him. Barney stole the Defense Secretary out of his chair, and shoved the gun against his temple.

"Barney, no! Let him go!"

"Don't try and pass this off." Barney said, still exuded calm. "Don't be shy. Just tell me how it went down. Tell me everything you did, and what it is you know. If you don't, I will kill..." He leaned down to the secretary. "What's your name?"

"Bernard Stanley!" the terrified man shouted.

Barney straightened, not removing the gun. His finger rested beside the trigger, daring Clint to oppose him. "If you don't tell me everything, then Bernard Stanley, here, is going to get a bullet in his left thigh. After that, I will shoot him in the right hand and see how far up we get from there. It will not be fast, and I will let him bleed out."

"Ok!" Clint exclaimed. He was standing now. He held a palm out to the line of HYDRA operatives and one to Barney. "Ok, I'll tell you whatever you need to know. I'm out, you're out. It doesn't matter if I tell you everything. Is that what you want?"

Barney nodded. "That's all I want. From the beginning, little brother. Start with the day I kidnapped you and Steve Rogers, the day that I dragged you into my Mexico base and filled you with enough drugs to supply a cartel for seven years. Start there. I want to know how you felt when you discovered it was me who built an entire world for you, then destroyed it at the same moment."

:(:):(:):

Steve smoothed the White House map plans down at the corners. Clint's abandoned radio equipment weighed down the edges, preventing the cool spring air from carrying it away from them. He'd decided on a plan of attack already. They had a way in, not perfect, but it would have to do. A heavy blanket of sniper fire would eat them a hole on the East Lawn. National Guardsmen would capture the men they killed and take their places. With masks and guns in place, the risk of discovery would be lessened, but not substantially. Radio call checks would reveal them eventually. This would have to do.

Steve estimated they had ten minutes at most to breach the building. The S.W.A.T. van monitored the radio call checks with their parabolic dish, and the minute they had a pattern down, the Captain would schedule the Go-Team. He needed this to work; it was their only chance.

Natasha and Tony both knew their roles. Besides the obvious muscle Stark offered, his brain was more important for this mission. The House security system had most likely been rigged and codes rerouted. If they needed to get into some place alarm proofed, Tony would hack it. Natasha constituted their stealth. She'd handle the HYDRA agents they'd found on the main floor, with Steve as back up. Between the three of them, they hoped to evacuate at least the East Wing. They would enter through the Kennedy Garden, slip inside, and cordon off the area. Using Tony's laser cutter, they would cut their way from one floor to the next, and clear that. Ten minutes most likely pushed the limits of what they could accomplish, but Steve had to try it.

"Captain!" Bruce shouted.

Steve looked up from where he mentally poured over the map. Banner worked beside Tony out of the back of a Channel 3 news van parked forty meters from the staging area. Soon, they would have Clint's internal hearing aids working as a two-way radio. How the scientists could ever accomplish the task, without even having Clint present, made him forever grateful the science twins were on his side.

Figuring they'd finished, Steve left the map unfurled and jogged over. As he approached, he noticed Natasha crouched inside the van, with Thor standing in the cramped space beside her. The Asgardian motioned to the news monitors for Steve to watch.

In the lower left hand corner, a streaming video played of the internal Oval Office. Clint stood near the center of the room across from Charles Barton. The latter had a gun in his hand, and he was holding it to the forehead of the man beside him.

"We are now transferring you to live feed coming from INSIDE the White House." The reported announced. "Again, we discovered this footage streaming online, we can only assume it is authentic. You can see the members of the cabinet sitting down. We have word that there are more armed assailants in the room as well. Oh, we have audio coming through now!"

"He's showing off." Tony whispered.

"The whole world knows who he is now." Bruce replied.

"This isn't good."

Steve agreed. He pulled himself up into the van and edged past Tony. He stood beside Natasha, and cranked up the volume on the monitor.

_"I knew something was wrong with SHIELD."_ Clint said frankly. They could tell his attempt to diffuse the situation. He made no move to grab for the gun. _"We didn't know how deep it went. Banner asked me to quit, so I did. That's when you picked Cap and me up."_

_"That's when I took you and tortured you, isn't it?"_ Barney clarified, smiling._ "Go on, tell the whole world. Don't be shy. They already couldn't think any less of you."_

_"Yes, you did. You tortured both of us."_

_"How did I do it?"_

_"Barney – "_

The van hopped on its shocks as the Avengers all started in unison. The sound of a 9mm's shot rang out in the oval office. The Defense Secretary screamed as the bullet entered his leg.

_"Barney, don't! Me, look at me, just point the gun at me and leave him alone! Ok? Just me, that's good. Focus on me."_

The gun left the Defense Secretary and focused on Barton instead.

Clint took a deep breath before starting. _"You drugged me. You used nano tech and filled my brain with things that were never real. You made me live another life, and you made me happy at first. I was happy, all right?! I had a woman that I loved, and a family, and my best friends. I never wanted to leave it. I never wanted to go back to reality after that because the real world just didn't measure up. I hated it. I hate everything about living because it took what I loved away from me. You made me love that family, and when I thought I could just get over it and pretend everything was fine, you murdered them. My kids, Stark's girl, my wife, everything. You killed all of them, just when you knew I never wanted to come back to real life."_

Barney's toothy grin returned. _"I bet that made you hate me."_

_"Yes."_

_"And yet, you left your only support. You left the Avengers. I knew that wasn't real. Tell me what you were really doing. Tell the truth. Tell everyone that Clint Barton would never be caught turning into a drunken homeless bum, and tell them why."_

Clint's eyes flicked to the Defense Secretary, who was hyperventilating into the arms of his assistant. Barney's gun returned to Bernard Stanley, this time trained on his right hand.

_"Because of him."_ Clint said.

_"'Him' who?"_ Barney pressed.

_"Because of our father."_ Clint seemed to deflate at the word. For Stanley's benefit, Barney did too. The gun fell away from him and aimed at the floor.

_"Catharsis. Liberation. Do you feel the release from saying it at once? All out loud? Airing our filthy laundry like the stink they are? Keep going. Remind me the truth I try every day to forget. What did he do to us?"_ Barney asked.

Clint's answer was too low to hear. Mesmerized, Steve leaned forward and thumbed the volume button again. The team couldn't imagine pulling away from the screen. Over time, they'd learned more and more of the man who had their back. Clint proved to be equal parts loyal to a fault and an utterly unreliable goofball. Tony knew more of the life Clint led before joining SHIELD, and the demons he'd suffered with for the majority of his adult life. But for the first time, everyone knew. The private life of ace archer, champion of Midgard, wielder of Mjonir and Sleiphner's bow, friend of Alfheimr would be aired for everyone with access to a television, including the very friends Clint often kept shut out of his life.

_"That's right."_ Barney said._ "He beat us. It runs in the family, torturing others. He tortured us so I had to keep alive our family tradition. When did he beat us?"_

_"When he drank."_ Clint said. His gaze cut deeply into his brother. _"There. Does that bring the memories back for you? Does that make it better, me saying it? Do you feel like everyone is finished listening?"_

Barney laughed again. _"You were always more dramatic than me, little brother. Ok, so we didn't have the perfect childhood. Daddy beat us, mommy didn't care about anything but her next nicotine fix, and then they just up and died. Slammed right into that tree after daddy got drunk. Do you remember the orphanage?"_

_"Of course I do."_ Clint said through gritted teeth.

_"Of course you do. Of course that's why you would never do that. You would never turn into the half-brained drunk that he was. So what were you doing then, Barton? What did you do when you and Stark tussled on the front lawn of Stark Tower?"_

_"I was working a case."_

_"MY case."_

Clint nodded.

_"You were under cover. You fooled everyone, didn't you? You must have thought you were pretty clever, huh? But here we are anyway. You did surveillance on HYDRA agents while we all thought you'd given it up. How did that make you feel? To be the most hated hero on the planet?"_

Clint refused to take the bait.

"Keep him talking, Clint." Steve silently breathed as he watched.

_"Barney, this isn't about us. This has nothing to do with our history, or what shoulda-coulda happened to us as kids. You are holding hostage the President of the United States. You've wired this place like a roman candle. You've got to let these people go."_

_"I saw what they did to you. Dragging our name through the mud like it meant nothing. You know what we're like? Jekyll and Hyde. You were always smarter than me, I'll admit it. You flew under the radar for months, and soon I started feeding into the lie too. You really had me going. It didn't take long for them to just write you off. They abandoned you. You were stabbed in the back by my agent, Yolanda Towns?"_

_"Yes."_

_"And still, no one cared. You bled for the Avengers, and everyone just kicked you to the gutter. Doesn't that infuriate you?"_

_"No, Barney, it doesn't."_ Clint said honestly. _"Is that why you're doing this? Because you want to punish everyone for what they did to me? Because I don't care. I went undercover because I love my team, and if I didn't they would have been killed fifty times over. Without my intel, Fury wouldn't have known about Insight and you would have killed all those people. I'm going home at the end of this."_

The gun came up again, trained this time on Clint. _"Not if I kill you first."_

_"Why would you want that?"_

_"You're name's clear. You're the hero. You did it, Clint, you beat me. You found me out. Do you know what I really wanted, though? This moment, right here. We're out of the shadows at last, brother! The only two people on the planet who knows what the Hell lies in the darkness of good and evil. We've been fighting separate sides of a spy war, and now here it is. The culmination of all our hard efforts. Which brother will win? Who will walk away?"_ Barney moved away from the bleeding, crying Secretary of Defense. He headed back to the presidential desk, where a second laptop streamed four, muted news stations.

With his attention turned away, Clint moved to the bleeding man. He removed Stanley's tie and used it to apply direct pressure to the gunshot wound. The camera zoomed out until the news anchor returned to announce a commercial break. Steve leaned forward and muted the channel. The Avengers were left in silence.

"I cracked Clint's hearing aid frequency. We're in." Stark announced with limited enthusiasm.

"OK, everyone, we can watch the highlights of this on Channel 7 when we get back to our own beds tonight." Steve said, taking control again. "Stark, tell Clint we're going in. We want ten minutes, whatever he can do to give us what we need, tell him to do it. I'm checking in with the S.W.A.T. scouts to see if they have our timing down. The minute we get that, we'll start a countdown."

Tony agreed, and set to relaying the information.

Thor followed Steve from the van and paused beside Bruce. "Are you prepared for our bout?" he asked.

Bruce shrugged. He pulled off his glasses and handed them to Tony. "Actually, I wish I'd worn bigger pants."

Thor smiled but didn't laugh. Given what he'd witnessed, he felt more somber than usual.

"I'm sure Rhodes brought his gym bag. You can change into sweaty superman clothes when this is all done." Natasha replied.

"You know that's very comforting. I think I might just decline the offer of another man's sweaty gym clothes, if it's all the same." Bruce replied, trying to remain light.

Steve threw up his arm room across the way. He held up both hands with fingers extended. Ten minutes until they went in. The Avengers mentally prepared for the coming extraction.

* * *

WARD! Oh how we love to hate him. And what could Barney's plan possibly be? Will the avengers get in and out without getting Clint killed? who will survive? who will die?

_Next time: –Click, Click, Bang: Carney Roulette-_


	24. Click, Click, Bang: Carney Roulette

The Avengers are just awesome. can i just point that out? :)

* * *

Chapter 23 –Click, Click, Bang: Carney Roulette-

"How's that feel? Better? Look, you just hit the lottery; I'm going to get you out of here, OK? Just stay conscious for a little bit so you can walk out of here." Clint whispered to Stanley. The man looked like he should have retired fifteen years ago, but instead he joined the new Presidential administration. He was on meds, blood thinners, and high blood pressure. Getting the bleeding under control wouldn't happen without a team of paramedics.

"Barney, I need to get this man out." Clint said, standing. He rubbed the excess redness from his hands onto his pant legs.

"What for? Save the time, put a bullet in his head."

Some of the women gasped. The men shot desperate glances at the Avenger. No doubt they wondered why Clint Barton, ex-screw up, was sent in to save their hides and not someone more attention drawing, like Steve Rogers or Tony Stark. Bruce Banner would have been preferred at this point to the bow-less archer they got slated with.

"You know I'm not going to let that happen."

Barney turned to him. "Let it happen? Don't kid yourself, little brother, you have no control in this situation. I have the control."

"I know that, and I'm not arguing with you. But look, you've got a lot of people in this room. You can let one bleeding, old man loose. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Let him go in my place."

His brother went silent for a moment as he considered his options. He lifted his hand and counted heads, rotating in place as he made sure no one was left out. Clint watched as the cogs turned in his mind, and finally he answered.

"I'll make a bet with you. Halstead?"

One of the HYDRA standbys approached.

"Does that cowboy I put in the West Wing have the revolver on him still? The Smith and Wesson, you know the one."

Halstead nodded. With Barney's indication he headed out of the room to track down the revolver.

_Crap,_ Clint thought. He knew this game all too well. The Barton brothers spent their later childhood lives as muscle for the traveling circus that frequented their Iowa town. That time introduced them to the less savory characters that also found solace from normal lives in the brotherhood of the carney way. Often, this brotherhood was ruptured by disagreements. One bullet, one decision. A revolver would be loaded, the chamber spun, and click-click-bang went away all their problems. If one survived, he won the argument. Carney Roulette. Case closed.

Just as Clint considered a protest, an electric pulse snapped the sides of his head like an internal rubber band. Shocked, he shook his head, wavering slightly on his feet.

"Clint?" Barney asked. "Don't be so dismayed. I won't kill too many of them."

The archer angled his face away from him and blinked his eyes. He resisted rubbing his ears. Living with the auricular implants had become so common now he didn't even consider taking out their external receiver. They were so small, and placed far enough in, that most body searches never discovered them. As familiar as Agent Ward was with Clint's physical impairment, he was surprised the agent overlooked them.

_"Clint, I'm watching you on Channel 7 right now. There is a live stream of everything in the room. Don't say anything, just look at your lap if you can hear me."_

TONY! Clint had no idea what the genius had done or how, but Stark's voice came in crisp and clear through his auricular implants. Barton looked down at his knees.

_"I'm glad it's working. Can Barney hear me? If he can't hear me, look to the left."_

Clint looked left.

_"Good. Listen, we're breaching innnnnn . . . sorry, had to check...eight more minutes. Find a clock and time it yourself. Natasha, Cap, and I are going in the East Wing through the garden. We estimate twenty-three people on that side. Thor and the Hulk are mixing it up on the front lawn as a distraction. If you understand, blink twice."_

Clint blinked twice.

_"After evacuating the East Wing, the three of us are slipping to the West. That's going to be the trickier side. Be careful in there. Out for now."_

"There we are!"

The Avenger returned to the present, leaving the conversation with Stark behind. Keeping Barney occupied shouldn't be too difficult, especially when his man returned with the revolver in his hand. Barney took it, and snapped the slider open to remove the bullets.

"All right, now we're cookin'. Little brother, I will be posing a question to you. This gun can hold six rounds exactly. I am inserting one bullet into the chamber. You can avoid our lil' game now if you want to just start bleeding early. I'll tell you what...I'll let six hostages go if you let me shoot you someplace important and definitely p – "

Barney fed a single live round into the chamber and closed the cylinder, running through his twisted options. "You know what? Never mind. That wouldn't be any fun because I know you, and you would pick that option. This has got to be more interesting, man! We're hosting a performance, y'know! Our best performance here with the best crowd that Carson's Carnival could never seem to drum up on its own. Here is my new proposal; I'll give you three opportunities to win a body."

With a flick of his wrist, two HYDRA agents moved to Clint. They slipped zip ties over his wrists to keep him from struggling. The biggest of the two remained beside him and jacked his arms up his back until Clint was forced to pitch forward, or risk shattering his newly mended shoulder blade.

In that position, he could no longer see his brother's face, but he heard the spin of the revolver's chamber. Someone yanked the bottom of his shirts up to expose the train track of old and new scars that marred his flesh. He felt the cloth fingertips of gloves probe the soft space where he'd lost one rib to an anti-aircraft bullet. The muzzle of the Smith and Wesson jammed into the skin to palpate his liver.

"This area seems vital enough." Barney hissed in his ear. "Lose something here?"

The muzzle dug in.

"Rib." Clint tried not to gasp.

"Shame. Ok, so three hostages. Three pulls to the trigger. Now, if you get shot the first time, you know what happens? You don't get any of them. If you survive the first shot, you get one. The second shot two, and we'll see what happens from there. Should we start?"

"Clint, we're breaching in five minutes."

The archer closed his eyes, waiting.

Click.

The room let out a collective breath as they watched, horrified. No one moved to stop the attack for fear of their own lives. Clint didn't shutter until Barney's exclamation startled him.

"HA! What d'ya know? You get the bleeding Mr. Stanley. Should we see if he gets to have any friends?"

Click.

The First Lady cried, pressing her face into her husband's shoulder. The little girl on his lap screamed as tears poured down her cheeks. Clint kept his eyes closed as he waited. He had no control over the barrel of that gun. He wanted to walk out of the building on his own two feet, but who knew for sure what would happen. Barney had no problem making him bleed. Of that, Clint was well aware.

Dismayed with the lack of action, Barney lifted a knee into the soft hollow of Clint's missing rib. The Avenger's legs buckled out of reflex, and his healing shoulder tore in the backward grip of the man restraining him. He hissed through his teeth, determined to keep it all together. The revolver shoved against his flesh again. He heard the snap of the lever cocking into place.

Click.

Clint nearly shook with the tension of his clasped molars. He showed no reaction to his lack of being skewered with the metal projectile. The muzzle pulled away from his side, and the HYDRA operative cut him free, throwing him into the table between the parallel couches. Clint half caught himself, though it didn't prevent the three glass mugs from shattering to the floor with an antique vase. He hoped they didn't cost that much.

"Three, Clint. You won the right to three of them. Pick them out." Barney popped open the cylinder of the revolver and reloaded the empty rounds as he hopped back on the desk.

"Defense Secretary, President, President's daughter." Clint said instantly. He'd spent the whole time during the roulette game to consider his options.

Barney raised an eyebrow. "No."

"You said I get to pick." Clint reminded him.

"I also lied. Keep pushing it and I will only give you two. The Presidential family stays."

The little girl sobbed again. Her small arms tugged deeper into her father's jacket. Clint wanted her out of the situation immediately. The President's job came with this sort of risk, but that child never asked to be born into this situation. He needed to get her out.

"Defense Secretary, Secretary of State, President's daughter." Clint counter-offered.

Barney waved the air with the revolver. "No, no, no. The girl is going to stay and no, you can't have her. I don't care if you beg. Ask one more time, Clint, and I'll disembowel her mother with a fountain pen."

The First Lady screamed into her shaking hands, tears rolling down her face unbidden. Tiring of her outbursts, one of the HYDRA men strode forward and strapped a loop of cord through her mouth like a gag. The woman shook like a leaf as she hung her head.

Clint scanned the gathered hostages. He bypassed the higher-ups sitting on the couch and focused his attention on the 'nobody's', the extras in the movie that were usually there to become fodder for the bad guys. The security officials were doing their best to seem unaffected, but it was quite clear they were just as close to brown-trousers time as the others. There were a few that looked somewhat familiar now that he's had time to really look at them. That woman, under all that tear-streaked makeup, should be the Press Secretary. And the man next to her should be the Communications Director.

Well, the boat's sinking now, ladies and gentleman. Women and children first. And since the only child and First Lady were strapped in with the ship...

"Defense, State, Press Secretary."

The woman audibly bit back a sob of relief.

Barney mulled over the options Clint gave him. He scanned the captives like a ravenous lion armed with intelligence and a gun. Using the revolver as an extension of himself, he indicated the Secretary of Homeland Security. With trepidation, the man stood with the not-so-gentle prodding of a HYDRA goon. Clint picked himself up from the floor and approached beside him.

Barney only smiled. "Homeland Security, huh?"

The cabinet member gulped and nodded. Anticipating the question, he said, "Anthony Holloway."

"Anthony Holloway, how does it feel to not be chosen to leave?"

Holloway refused to respond. This, apparently, wasn't his first rodeo when it came to hostage situations.

"Holloway, can you tell my brother what you did after you found out he left the Avengers? You said something pretty interesting about him. Do you remember what those words were?"

Again, the Homeland Security Secretary clamped down his lips, though the elder Barton brother required no prompting.

"You asked the reporter who interviewed you, and I am quoting you here, 'Did he even matter?. In the limelight of Thor and Iron Man and Captain America, what did America need a marksman for? A spy whose sketchy history was never made part of public record, and therefore was unfit to be trusted.' Isn't that what you said?"

Holloway's face reddened, but he remained silent. He chanced a look at Clint to gauge the Hawk's reaction to the revelation. But Barney kept up the train of rhetorical questions.

"Tell me, doesn't your wife work at Stark Tower? She does, doesn't she? And your son's name is Bohdi. Bohdi went deaf last year, didn't he? Your wife asked my brother to talk to him, didn't she? And how is your boy doing now, Mr. Secretary of Homeland Security?"

Feeling the weight of the words becoming too oppressive, Holloway tried to speak. "I'm so sorry – " He began saying, his body turning toward Clint, but the archer didn't pay him any attention. He watched Barney's hands. He knew what was coming, and the minute the older Barton's hands rose, Clint was already moving.

Hawkeye threw himself forward. Barney's body collided with his, and the revolver fired almost simultaneously. Clint reached for the gun. The HYDRA goons rushed him all at once and tore the brothers apart. In their attempt to pry Clint away from the revolver, one silent HYDRA assassin fired his weapon. Clint hit the floor and curled into a ball with his hands clutching his chest.

"You idiot!" Barney screamed at him. "You shot him! You shot him, you idiot!"

Surprised, the faceless crew member looked at his leader. He was still looking, wondering where he had went wrong, when Barney emptied two rounds from the revolver into the same hole created in his forehead.

Holloway hit his knees beside Hawkeye and pressed his hands against the archer's chest to stem the flow of blood. "I'm sorry! Oh God, why did I do this?! Stay with me, Hawkeye. Look at me!"

:(:):(:):

Steve crouched down beneath the pillar between the struts of the fence. The East Wing was far from evacuated, though the massive rough-and-tumble fight breaking out between Thor and the Hulk had attracted a good number to the West Side. Bodies were strewn across the grass like haphazard mannequins. Everything was stained red. The Captain motioned to Natasha who was standing down the way from him. She nodded briskly. He checked Tony on the opposite side. Iron Man was ready to kick some HYDRA butt. Time to move.

With a fluid bound, Natasha rushed to him, crouched onto his shield and vaulted over the east fence. She landed with the accuracy of a ballet dancer and the silence of a true assassin. The minute her feet hit the earth, she began to move. The first HYDRA agent was within ten feet. She took him down instantly and moved on to the next, never breaking stride.

It was Stark's turn. He'd dressed for the occasion, in a decidedly less-than Iron Man array. Knowing his suit would be more of a burden, especially for a snatch-and-grab operation, he dressed down to his right wrist gauntlet and boots. Steve quirked up an eyebrow at him. Tony shrugged.

"You are seriously going into this with no armor?" Steve whispered.

Tony tugged the long sleeve shirt he wore. "Who said I wasn't wearing armor? Can't a guy make a Kevlar woven knit wool and still look stylish and comfortable?"

Steve rolled his eyes. With Natasha working her way singlehandedly through the Kennedy Garden, the Captain signaled the sniper team. One by one, HYDRA's lookouts came tumbling down beneath the expert marksmanship. Tony snapped his fingers, waved the air once, and the ten-man National Guard crew stalked forward.

With his superior strength working overtime, Captain Rogers took two bars of the White House fence and peeled them back like the skin of an orange. Natasha had finished on the main level, and now took up position by the East wall, out of window-sight, to wait for her fellow Avengers. The National Guard knew their jobs well.

Get in, find a body, strip them, hide them, take their place. Infiltrate from the ground up. Reclaim the White House.

Steve and Stark didn't bother waiting to see that everything was done to specifications.

Following Natasha's lead, they cut a diagonal path across the grass and slid against the wall beside her. With Steve's go-ahead, they switched places and Tony moved to the forward point. Using his wrist gauntlet, he worked a neat red line along the outer wall of the White House. He went in a circular motion, creating a hole barely large enough to allow them to climb through. When he completed the breach, he stepped away and allowed Steve to take over muscling the drywall, concrete, and siding inward. Before it could fall away with a crash, Steve caught the top of the bundle with his fingers and eased it against the floor. As they climbed through, two HYDRA-dressed National Guardsmen came behind them with flower pots stolen off the outer terrace. These were arranged outside the new hole as camouflage before the men moved away. According to the thermal scans, the room hadn't been occupied in the last five minutes, and so far it had stayed that way.

They arrived in the First Lady's office. Located on the ground floor, it had a single entrance that lead directly into the hallway and the secretary's office directly across. The furniture resembled any in the old homes architecture; rich ancient woods, thick curtains, dusty books and old art. Steve felt a small pang of regret knowing that his first actual visit to the White House included tearing some of it apart.

Steve directed Natasha to the door. She would remain as the lookout and muscle for the group. Tony took up his own position instantly. With Steve's help, he dragged over the massive oak desk. Tony climbed onto the top, disregarding whatever sat there, and directed his gauntlet directly up. Before beginning the next cut, he nodded to Natasha. She slipped through the doorway and disappeared.

"Cap." Tony whispered. He held a hand against the Bluetooth set he'd stolen from the news van. His face paled as he listened in on Clint's current status.

Steve looked up to him.

"Clint's been shot."

"How bad?"

"I don't know. He's gasping. I can't hear much. His brother's screaming." Tony cast a glance to the room door as if he may go running to the Oval Office.

"He can take care of himself, Tony. We need to stick to the plan. First East, then West."

There was a time when Stark would disagree. He'd disregard Steve's advice, call the remainder of his Iron Man suit, and go storming the virtual castle. But time, confidence, and their recent experience kept him from the rash decision. Steve was right. Clint proved his self-sufficiency time and time again. Tony had to trust him.

"Six minutes." Steve told him.

Above their heads, there came a knock on the floor. Tony took the signal and repeated his sawing technique to join the room above and below. As the floor attempted to fall through the ceiling, Steve mounted the desk and threw his shield up. He caught the majority of the falling debris before it could skitter across the floor.

Natasha's red hair appeared through the new skylight. She lifted her hand and sent down the count of the hostages. Twenty-seven in total, four HYDRA agents down, no shots fired.

Steve gave her a thumbs up.

She dropped the loop of a repelling line they'd borrowed from the S.W.A.T. van through the hole for Tony to anchor down. The opposite length, she secured on her end the opposite length before passing the line on to the first liberated hostage. With his end controlled, Tony extracted his phone.

Whether they wanted him in or not, Stark had gained full access to the White House security system before crossing the front lawn. The city had already cut off the power to the building, but Barney circumvented that with battery backups. Tony didn't notice a generator, but he didn't put it past them. The HYDRA members were well equipped for this hostage crisis.

With his connection, Tony searched for the security feeds. Unless they existed on an independent server, they were still off line. He next checked the outgoing signals from the immediate area. Somehow, Barney was streaming internationally, but he wasn't doing it from the White House servers. In the few minutes they had, Tony wanted to dig deeper.

The building shook. Outside, Thor and the Hulk continued their fight. No doubt Thor would feel like a bag of bruises by the end of it, but the distraction served its purpose. Not only was HYDRA more interested in the West Wing, but the small noise the Avengers did make went unnoticed.

"Four minutes, get ready." Steve whispered.

Tony slid his phone back into his pocket. When they got out again, he'd work the angle of hacking into Barney's signal and retracing any important file transfers from there. At this point, none of them knew what the older Barton wanted. The man headed to the small opening in the wall, and tapped the leg of the closest undercover Marine. The two fake bushes parted to create a hole for the hostages to escape. Tony nodded to Steve.

Steve gathered everyone's attention to himself. "Listen up," he whispered to the cluster of terrified men and women. "We have agents on the inside that are guiding you out. Go straight through that panel. When you get to the garden, follow their directions and don't look back. Understood?"

No one attempted to dissuade him.

"Go. Now!"

Like a shot, they scrambled for the open air and disappeared through the carved out garden path. Half the job was done. Soon, the HYDRA agents would be checking in with the individual areas. When they reached the call sign of the agents taken out already, they would realize something was afoot. Protocol meant the agents would go and check on the missing men in person. The entire White House would come down on any Avenger still left on the grounds.

With the last hostage whisked away by their team, Natasha whistled down to them. Steve climbed his way up to her first and hauled over the ledge. He let a hand down to help Tony climb up.

"I could climb a rope if I needed to." Tony told him.

"Not unless you got a blazing fire under you." Steve replied nonchalantly.

Tony was lifted through the opening in the ceiling, and came to a crouch beside Natasha and Steve. For posterity, they grabbed the edge the carpet and dragged it over the hole. It may prevent any less observant agents from noticing the gaping hole, but if not, it could be a Scooby-Doo style trap door. Natasha was already at the hallway. She peered out at whatever men may have shifted position. Thus far, she saw none.

She peered over her shoulder at them, sending up a thumb to show the coast was clear.

Steve looked at Tony, who nodded quickly, and all were set to go. One wing down, one left to clear.

Tony tapped the headset in his ear to change frequencies, and patched himself into Thor's receiver. "Baywatch, time to take the party to the next lawn."

Thor's voice was raspy. From the sounds radiating through the entire building, the Hulk and he had already leveled at least three cars. "It shall be completed."

Their free ten minutes was up. Call checks were going to soon restart and any HYDRA agent that didn't radio back would send up a waving red flag. They knew the West Wing would be more difficult to liberate, but they couldn't just give in half way. The hostages could be moved more centrally, complicating any future liberation efforts for them.

Tony gave the go-signal, and the three moved as one. Natasha took the left point, and Steve took right. Tony brought up the rear with his repulser charged and ready to fire at will. According to the thermal scans of the West Wing, the hostages were residing in the lower level. They planned to reach the end of the hall, enter the left office, and cut their way down a floor. Natasha broke off before reaching that office. Alone, she headed down the staircase and agilely vaulted to the floor below. She landed with the stealth of a cat and blazed her own trail to the west end.

Steve and Tony crushed together as the turn toward the West came up to them.

"This is weird. Why aren't there more of them? I thought this place would be crawling with the fancy pants parade." Tony asked.

"I don't know, it doesn't make sense." Steve whispered back. He leaned forward and checked the hall supposedly with hostages just below. He would expect at the least two or three agents in the West Wing. However, he found it just as lonely and desolate as their entire walk thus far. He raised an eyebrow to Tony.

"That's some distraction Thor must be pulling."

"Don't waste someone else's stupidity." Tony said. He moved ahead of Steve and entered the administrative office. Empty again. Their luck continued to hold out.

"Cut the floor." Steve told him. He moved to the window and peered out. He could clearly see the wreckage Thor and the Hulk wrought, but he did not see the corresponding HYDRA agents on the lawn. Though they had planned it that way, it didn't settle his nerves to see the opening. In fact, it did very much the opposite.

"Something's going on here, Tony, something we're not getting the full picture of."

"Big-picture talk when we get out of the exploding house, Cap." Tony finished with the majority of the cut. Steve tried to grab the edges and ease it down, but before he got a proper handhold, the drywall ceiling dropped through. It hit the floor below with a crash that couldn't be stifled no matter how hard they tried. Natasha barely managed to scramble beneath a desk and avoid getting a full smack to the forehead.

"Must move faster!" Tony said. He dropped down through the hole and hit the desk on his knees. Steve came down behind him.

"So much for covert. Nice job, guys!" Natasha seethed when they hit the ground floor. There were four dead HYDRA agents littered around her.

The door blasted open, letting another five agents in with guns at the ready. Without reservation, Natasha and Steve tag-teamed them. Tony left the grunt work to them. He headed to the far wall, where already Sam and Rhodes worked a hole into the White House siding. If all went as planned, the little green men dressed as HYDRA agents would have moved to the West Wing with them. By the time he jockeyed the wall open, Steve and Natasha had already disabled the other agents.

Tony took up his position at the front of the liberated men and women. Most of them were walking, though Cap ended up having to carry two on his own. Tony picked up a small boy he decided would be better to carry instead of making him run. Rhodes and Sam gave him a wait sign. The coast wasn't clear yet.

Tony's attention was split between three worlds. First, waiting on Rhodes and Sam. The second, listening to Clint's ordeal. The third, everything else in the room around him. In one ear, he continued to listen as Barney threw a tantrum. Someone spoke frantically over Clint as the archer gasped for air. In the other ear, the little boy he carried leaned in closer.

"Are you Iron Man?" the little boy asked.

"No, I just happen to look like Iron Man."

"Did you come to get us out?"

"Nope. We're staying here."

"I thought you didn't like touching people."

"I don't, and you reminding me is freaking me out. Just hush up and deal with it."

"Four minutes overtime." Steve called ahead.

Tony turned to the first few people cluttered behind him. "Stay close, run fast, heads down. Got it? Eight only, follow me." He checked Rhodes, was given the all clear, and nodded back.

"Let's go."

He crouched through the opening in the wall and scanned the area. Taking up point across from him, the National Guard dressed as HYDRA agents waved them forward. Tony set off at a run with the first group of eight, Rhodes watching his six behind him. He got them to the side gate, and handed them through to the S.W.A.T. members waiting there. A few moments later, Steve brought out the second group. Tony helped the men and women get free of the gate before Steve squeezed out himself. Natasha peaked out last, checked the area, and led the last group to freedom with Sam at her back.

"Let Clint know the wings are clear. Let's meet back at the van and see how he's doing." Steve told Tony.

He nodded once and they set off back to their makeshift base, praying to whatever higher power there was that Clint was still able enough to even communicate with them.

* * *

so much has happened! HOLY COW! Holloway is Bohdie's father? poor kid. if you didn't get that reference, you can find it in the short story (Role Model) found in Arrow's Little Hits.

_Next time: –Goodbye Daddy-_

_oooh what does that mean? uh oh!_


	25. Goodbye Daddy

Thank you everyone for the fantastic reviews! I truly appreciate it! Only 3 more chapters left!

* * *

Chapter 24 –Goodbye Daddy—

_Bad idea, Barton. Next time you think you have a good idea, remember that it's probably just a really bad idea._ Clint chastised himself mentally as he attempted to catch his breath. When he agreed to the change of clothes Tony virtually forced on him, he had no idea what his friend had been so excited about. Apparently the fabric, whatever it was, had a propensity for stopping bullets.

Fancy that.

Holloway yanked at the shirt to see the indent over Clint's left ribs. More than likely he harbored one or two fractures beneath the purple skin, but no obvious gush of blood erupted from him. Confused, the man searched around.

"Kevlar, brother?" Charles asked. A wave of relief seemed to take over him. He crouched down a few feet away, keeping his gun out of Clint's reach.

"Never leave home . . . without your lead . . .underwear." Clint replied breathlessly. Rib shots were never enjoyable. With his liver already growling from the revolver strike, and his chest purple from Ward's kick and gun, Clint felt like the only thing left of him that wasn't going to be bruised were the bottoms of his feet. Given that the entire room was surrounded by explosives, there was no telling whether he would walk out of the death trap alive.

"Well, I bet Holloway really wished he had that himself right now." Barney said.

"Wait! Wait, I did everything you wanted! I got you in! I did – " Holloway exclaimed

Without warning, Barton fired the revolver again. True to the training by Trick Shot, Holloway collapsed to his knees, a perfect circle passed through the front of his skull and erupted from the back like a fist. The man died instantly. Clint fought his way to his elbows. Shallow breaths didn't nearly cover what his brain told him he needed to breathe. One hand reached out and felt along Holloway's jugular. Though he held out hope that somehow his brother hadn't managed to kill him, he knew better in his heart of hearts. Before his own mentor, Trick Shot, died of metastasized lung cancer, he'd taken Barney under his instruction. Barney's aim rivaled Clint's own.

Barney returned to his feet, and motioned to the others. "Take them out, those three. That was the deal."

A few of the black clad agents cut a path into the fray of disgruntled hostages. The three chosen individuals didn't resist being man-handled to their feet. Leaving meant freedom. It meant their very lives, and it came at the price of the deposed Avenger, Clint Barton. Some paused as they went by his injured form. Out of respect, they may have considered helping him up. Clint waved them on. He wasn't willing to let them stop even for him. Who knew if Barney would change his mind?

_"Clint, we're out. Are you ok? I heard you get shot."_ Tony's voice came through his implant.

Carefully, Clint sat up. After all, he was still on camera. He had to show the world at least one person in the room could be relied upon.

"Oh? Not dead?" Barney asked, smiling. "Well, that's pretty fancy lead-wear there, Clint. That a present from Stark Industries?"

"Good ol' Tony." Clint groaned. He stuck his elbow on the top of the coffee table and pushed himself to his feet. He'd already suffered enough on Alfheimr, this pain couldn't even compare.

"Glad to see you're still with us. Ready for round two? This time we get to up the stakes. I know what you think about kids, Clint, and I've just got the greatest little plan ahead of us. Should I tell you what it is?"

"No." Hawkeye stared at the little girl clinging to her father's neck. This wasn't going to end well.

Barney curled his finger, and the closest HYDRA guard grabbed the child from her father's grasp. The President screamed until he found a fist pummeling the side of his face. The little girl was plopped onto the desk. She required no restraint to keep in place. Pure fear prevented her from moving. Barney strode over, and placed one hand on either side of her as he leaned down to her level. His tone reflected a severity that made Clint's spine crawl.

"Kate, right? You're daddy's told me a lot about you." Barney said.

She sniffed, though it didn't prevent the trail of tear-filled mucus from stretching down to her lip. Her face was raised, red. Clint couldn't decide whether someone had actually dared to lay a hand on her or if was simply from her tears. Through the muffle of his hearing aid he could make out Tony's voice and the others beginning to scramble. If Clint didn't get the situation back under control, and soon, they might risk a full breach.

"Barney, let the girl go, she has nothing to do with this!" Clint dared a step forward, arms outstretched in supplication. He had to get the kid out. The last thing they needed to see was the body of a dead six year old riddled with bullets.

But his brother ignored him. Filled with his own fissures of complex thoughts, Barney continued very calmly. "Kate, do you know what an orphan is?"

Clint's stomach churned as the little girl's head pivoted from left to right.

"An orphan is someone who grows up without a mommy and without a daddy to take care of them. I am an orphan, did'cha know that?"

"Barney, don't do this. Give me the girl. Just let me take her out of here." Throwing off any reservation, Clint came as close as he dared. He could make a play for the gun again, hope not to get shot, but Kate would most likely be in the line of fire. How far could he get if he made a grab for her right now? Most likely, it wouldn't be far enough.

Barney continued to ignore him. He spoke only to the child. "Kate, I want you to turn around. Look at your daddy." He waited until the child did as she was asked. "Say goodbye to your daddy, because he is going to die."

"Barney!" Clint exclaimed.

The child hiccuped as she bawled. Barney continued to press her, forcing her until the words came out between the strangle of tears.

"Goodbye, daddy." She said.

_"Clint, if you need us to get in there, we will."_ Tony's voice rattled into Clint's ear like his own conscious.

He made a curt shake of his head in response.

_"I'm serious! He's not going to **just stop**."_

"No." Clint said out loud, to both Tony and Barney. He could handle this. He came in _to_ handle it.

"Good girl." Barney stood upright again and said to Clint, "I'm the one in control here, brother."

Now was his chance. He had to beg for her life or risk losing it. "No one's saying you aren't. You have the control. You're the ringmaster to this show. But she isn't like us. She doesn't need to be here. She doesn't need to see this. I told you, and I meant it, that I'm not leaving. If you want me to take another bullet for her then I will do that." Clint pushed in, just a little closer, a little harder, maybe Barney would finally crack. He whispered so the other agents wouldn't hear. "If you brought me in here to lead you to the grave, to be the first of us put down, I've come to terms with that. But Barney, please, let me save her."

The room fell to a graveyard silence as they watched the terrorist consider his options. Everyone held collective breaths, and even the distant world behind the camera lenses waited to see what may happen. Would Clint take another shot? Would he fight for the girl to go free? Would he peacefully rescue another hostage with his bargaining?

"_Clint?"_ Tony whispered his concern. Of course if no one else heard what Clint was willing to do for one young child, Tony did. No doubt the news shook him to his foundation.

"Take her."

Clint moved before the shock of what Barney agreed to hit him. He refused to have Barney repeat himself. He leaned forward, picked the child up in his arms, and whisked her toward the door. Once out of earshot, he planned to call Tony, have him send in Steve or Thor to take the girl from him until this was all over. But before he even reached the door, Barney stopped him.

"She's not leaving this room."

"You told me to take her." Clint replied fiercely. He paused by the closed door and swung the girl to his opposite hip to place as much of his body between her and Barney as possible.

"Take her, sure, but she isn't leaving. Don't you get it? Don't you understand yet why it is we're even here? She's necessary. She's important. She's worth more than anything in this room, including your life. So," Barney lifted his hand gun and sightlessly aimed for the First Lady's forehead. "Unless you want her to be halfway toward the orphanage now, you will take her into a corner and leave her there."

Barney's eyes grew dark like a black hole. Clint stood mesmerized by him.

How had he fallen so far? Dropped right into the hand of the devil himself? What had turned him into the black-hearted beast that had dogged Clint since they parted ways at Barney's first funeral? Clint occasionally speculated what changed normal men into monsters but with his gaze diving into the very soul of his own brother there was just nothing. No clues, no want for life. He had been completely transformed from that child Clint remembered fishing with on summer mornings, or sneaking out of the orphanage with to join the circus. Barney, despite his short comings, had always been an idol to the younger brother. He taught Clint how to take a punch, to stand up for himself against the orphanage bullies, to protect what was his, and the depths of loyalty itself.

"What happened to you?" Clint asked, his heart heavy in the weight of those memories of times past.

Barney stared lifelessly back. "Life. And it'll get you too. That's why I have to do this. I'm—" his voice broke, the gun lowered an inch from the First Lady's head. "Clint, I'm tired."

Could this be his opportunity?

"I know you are." Clint whispered. "Look, I know. I came in here not because you had a White House or a President, or your hand on a bomb. I came in here because I'm your brother. I know you like no one else out there knows you. Mr. Barton? I heard them call you that."

Now the gun pointed at the floor. Barney smirked just a little. "Yeah. Like I'm a Mr. Anything. That's what we used to call the old man. Mister. Like he was too good for us."

"But we aren't back there anymore. I haven't been in Iowa since we got out. We left together, remember that? I followed you out. I was always going to follow you. You're all I've got left." Clint pleaded with him from a place in his heart he forgot even existed. Spending so much of their adult life apart disintegrated whatever brotherhood Clint held for Barney. In that moment, though, the connection breathed back to life again.

"If I'm all you got left, then I've got news for you, Clint." Barney lifted the gun again. "I'm already too far gone."

* * *

:(:):(:):

* * *

Thor sat with his legs hanging from the back of the ambulance. He held a pack of ice to his disjointed nose while Bruce worked to realign the bones in Thor's left hand. Beside the nose, the hand, and Thor's twisted knee, he survived the official Hulk beat down relatively unscathed. He had no room for complaint after comparing the results to previous occasions. Although, he had managed to get his own fair share of knocks into the Hulk. Mjolnir rested on the asphalt between them with one edge of it covered in red/green Hulk blood. Thor would proudly proclaimed he'd slammed the hammer so hard into his ally that even Bruce Banner did not walk away unaffected (which was true). The doctor's swollen jaw throbbed and his hurt ribs hitched when he inhaled too deeply. Given the mutual all-out-fight, the Hulk was surprisingly willing to let go of his hold on Bruce's shared body when the time came. Thor would, too, proclaim he'd knocked the Hulk all the way out of his body.

With his clothes shredded over most of the White House gates, Bruce ended up in Rhodes' borrowed gym pants after all. The shirt smelled like three-day old sweat, which was an improvement on Bruce in general. He'd been in D.C. since the start of the attack and had yet to leave. With Cap, Stark, and Clint all gone, leading the Avengers fell haphazardly into his own hands. He was all too happy when the prodigal three returned and his own decision making fluttered away.

The ambulance had been backed directly against the overtaken news van. Steve, when he wasn't pacing or discussing strategy, stood in the back of the van beside Tony and Natasha. Everyone watched the live feed from the Oval Office. They didn't dare breach the room with the excessive detonator wire lighting the place up like a Christmas tree. No doubt the minute they punched a hole, the room would go up in an instant. That didn't mean they didn't want to, however. As Barney hammered on, they were more and more tempted to risk the full breach. The longer they waited, the more chance Barney had of just sparking the detonator himself and ending the negotiation with a bang.

Tony remained their constant communication inside. The streaming news channel was their eyes and ears. They had to come up with an alternative plan to get Clint out of there, but how could they hope to do it without risking the President's life? They needed a plan, a strategy, some angle to get them back inside and another round of punch-Thor on the lawn wasn't going to cut it.

"Get her out of there, Clint." Natasha whispered as she watched the power struggle between the two brothers.

Steve alternated between sitting and standing. Rhodes leaned on a stack of electronics with his arms folded over his chest. He, and Falcon beside him, had stripped down from their metal accessories, to fit inside and watch.

"This is killing me." Sam muttered. "He's not going to let her out of there. He's goin' to end up shooting somebody."

_"Ok, ok, wait a minute."_ They watched Clint go back into his bargaining mode. The Oval Office was at a lack of corners in general, but he settled on the curve as far from the center desk as possible. He passed between the other hostages sitting on the floor with their hands in zip ties and their bodies shaking. As he came closer, they began whispering to him.

"Tony?" Steve asked. The cameras and sound system wouldn't catch those side conversations, but Tony listening in the auricular device could. Tony held up a finger, telling them to wait.

Tony repeated the hostage's words which Clint's shoulder blocked them from seeing_. " 'Get us out. He's going to kill us. They aren't going to get us out.' "_ Tony looked up from his concentration. "People in there are starting to panic, Cap."

Steve went back to standing again. He shifted his weight from left to right.

Tony went on, repeating Clint's words. _"'It's going to be fine. I'm not here alone. What did that guy mean?'" _

_"'What are you talking about?'"_

_"'Holloway, he said, 'I got you in'. Does that mean something to you?'"_

_"'Should it? He's crazy. We're all going to die in here' " _

"Clint thinks Holloway might be in on it?" Rhodes declared. "The guy's been running security since . . ."

"Since what?" Steve demanded.

Rhodes dropped his arms. "Since Sitwell elected him to the position five years ago."

Steve's eyes slid close as the weight of it all slammed home. Not only had Barney invaded the White House, he had help from the inside. Help who thought they were untouchable. "I want files on everyone else in that room. Sam, help Rhodey find them. Anyone with any tie to Agent Yolanda Towns, Sitwell, or any other known member of the HYDRA organization or SHIELD, I want their names."

Rhodey and Sam headed off together.

"Towns?" Natasha asked quietly.

Steve glanced at her and nodded. "Clint told me on the jog over. His research is back in New York unless Fury took off with it, or burned it. Towns was the highest agent rank he tailed. She's the one who stuck the knife in his back. That's what got his cover blown."

"And why he wanted out." She surmised.

Clint used one hand to drag a table out from beside the wall and crouched down to the floor on his knees. He peeled the girl off of his neck, and set her against the wall between the mantel of the fire place and the side table. He grabbed an unoccupied chair and put in front of her, blocking her view of everything else in the room. They watched as Clint pulled off both of his shirts. The outer one had a perfectly scorched bullet hole in it, but the tank top did not. He held the Kevlar-like shirt and shook it out between himself and the child. The over-shirt, he put back on. He was just close enough for a mic on the side table to pick up his conversation. Somewhere out in TV land an audio specialist was, no doubt, making magic happen.

_"Katie, do you know who I am? My name is Hawkeye, and I'm an Avenger."_

She looked at him with wide blue eyes, but hadn't stopped tearing up.

_"Guess who my friend is!"_

She shrugged a little, at least trying to interact.

_"Iron Man. You know Iron Man, right?"_

Tony's bottom lip found itself between his teeth. If Clint didn't make it out of that room alive, someone was going to pay dearly for it.

Clint swept a hand down his face as if to outline Tony's facial hair on his own chin. It was part of the sign language the deaf archer used to indicate Stark's name. The child didn't smile, but they could see a little joy in her again.

_"Guess what? Iron Man made me this special shirt. And it can do really amazing things. It's just like his armor, except I don't look really good in red."_

Clint held the fabric between them, and her hand passed over it as if assessing its authenticity.

_"It can do pretty cool stuff. Like make you feel big and strong, and keep you safe. I want you to put this on, ok? It'll make you feel as cool as Captain America."_

Steve's throat choked up on him.

Clint lifted her arms up, and fed the tank top over her clothes. He tugged the bottom as far down her legs as he could. He was lucky the shirt was made big. With it in place, he pulled the chest out a little and tucked her arms inside as well. In the end she looked like a child trying to fit her entire body into an overgrown sleeveless shirt, which she was.

"Natasha says the entire country is watching you be the most adorable man on the planet. Women want to have your babies. But she's not one of them." Tony said into Clint's ear.

Natasha didn't even spare him a death glare. She wasn't the only one. Clint up and ignored him.

_"You're going to be my little helper, right?"_ Clint asked the girl.

_"Ok."_ She said.

_"Good, 'cause I need a little helper. This is your job. You've got to keep your hands tucked in, OK? I'm going to find you something to listen to. Now when I tell you to, you're going to walk out with me. Only with me, no one else."_

_"Are you gonna save my daddy?"_ She asked.

Clint didn't answer her. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead before standing and facing his brother again_. "Can I make a request?"_

Barney extended his hands to either side as invitation.

_"I'm sure one of your guys has an iPod or something around here. Let me find one. She doesn't need to hear this."_

Steve looked at Tony. "What could Clint do with one of those?"

"Disarm a bomb." Natasha answered.

Having finished with Thor's fingers and holding an instant cold pack to his face, Bruce climbed into the van. He'd caught the tail end of the conversation and moved to explain in depth what Natasha may have lacked the details for. "If the remote is infrared based, he might try to crack the screen, redirect the beam like a prism back into itself but to do that, he'd need to know where the trigger was and be confident about getting his hands on it. If the detonator is wire based, he may be looking for metal coils to short it out."

"Which he can get inside one of those things?" Steve asked.

"That or the headphones. I think he's trying to end this." Natasha added.

_"You know what your problem always was? You care too much. If you would just stop caring like I did, you might be standing next to me. I suppose there's no way to convince you to do that now?" _Barney scoffed and shook his head to the side at his brother's request. Perhaps he didn't see the same danger in giving Clint an electronic that the Avengers obviously had.

_"You know I won't."_

Barney sighed. He motioned blindly behind him_. "Agent whoever-you-are, go get my brother what he wants. And everyone do me a favor; no one gets to shoot him but me. His bleeding heart has robbed him of his armor."_

One of the faceless men in black left to complete the request. Before the door could swing shut, Agent Ward thundered his way inside to throw the monkey wrench into any plan Clint may have been working on.

"Uh oh." Steve whispered.

_"We've got a problem!"_ Ward announced. His poisonous anger fell on Clint. _"The Avengers broke through after that little lawn show from Thor and the Hulk. Everyone in the White House wings are gone."_

"Ah, crap." Tony said.

"It was bound to come out. Took him long enough." Natasha checked her watch. "A full twenty-three minutes since we evac the place and just now he's realized we rolled off with everyone. We should have hung around longer."

What would Barney do once he realized two-thirds of his hostages had been stolen out from under him? Who was going to suffer his wrath?

"Tony, you might want to get your suit on. Thor, gear up." Steve said, picking up his shield. If this went wrong fast, he was prepared to go in guns blazing.

They waited as the cogs in Barney's mind turned over and over. Like the gears in a clock, he considered the options left at his feet. He could keep his word, shoot two or three of the hostages as punishment but then again, that would give him even fewer to work with. The Avengers knew Barney was smart. If he had any hope of keeping control over the hostages, killing them was the last decision he should resort to.

What he did decide on surprised everyone, but Ward most of all.

_"Clint, take the rest of the hostages outside."_

The archer gave him a peculiar look. Steve, Natasha, Bruce, and Tony did too. Realizing he missed something important, Thor tilted the van down as he squeezed inside with the rest. Clint wasn't about to argue, or get clarification. If Barney told him to take the hostages and walk them out, he was going to do just that until instructed otherwise. He helped the men and women to their feet, grabbed the little girl, and marched them to the door. Before he even crossed the threshold, Barney and Ward raised their weapons.

_"Not her, Clint."_ Barney ordered. _"I told you already, the girl stays. She's important. I need her here. I need her to see it. You can't have her, not yet. Take the others, walk them out. But you come back. If anyone follows you, I will put a bullet into the President's skull."_

"No, no this doesn't make sense. Why would he just let them go? This isn't right. Something's up, Steve." Bruce whispered, shaking his head.

Ward turned on his boss. _"You're going to let him just walk out of here with them? There is no one else left! Don't you get it? They took everyone! All we have left are the people in this room, and you're just going to give him that? Are you nuts?!"_

_"Barney, let me have her."_ Clint begged. _"I'm coming back, just take me. If you need another body, then pick anyone on our team. They will come in. They'll take her place, and so will I. I swear to you. On madre, I'll swear to that."_

"I'll go in. If he asks for one of us, I'm it." Natasha said before anyone else could volunteer. They didn't try to dissuade her, either.

Ward took another step toward his boss. _"You can't let him walk out! He brings anyone in here and – "_

Barney ceased the argument with a single gunshot.

Clint staggered forward. He set Katie Bishop on the nearest couch and meant to reach down for the fallen agent, but Barney still held his smoking gun. Ward hit the ground on his back. His hand clutched his stomach where the bullet struck. More in shock of the action than the wound, Ward shot a glance at Barney.

_"What the Hell do you think you're doing?!"_

Without answering, Barney's attention switched to the HYDRA agents standing guard. They were less sure of themselves, breaking the careful arch they created along the room's periphery. Before the first even considered raising his gun against their recruiter and leader, Barney fired his next shots. He knocked them down like bowling pins. He started with one hand gun and finished the clip, pulled his second gun and finished killing the last of them before any was able to return fire. Trick Shot's training served him well. Not a single bullet missed.

"Clint, take who you can and get out of there!" Tony ordered into the headset.

Clint, though, stayed. His eyes dashed into the lens of a camera and very swiftly he shook his head left to right. Defiant to the last. Endlessly holding onto the hope that somehow he might still save them all.

Barney retrieved something from his pocket. It was a small, hand held device with a pin that he removed and dropped to the floor. He looked back at Clint. _"Three stay. The others go. If you don't come back alone, then this is all going to be over very soon. You know what this is. You know what I will do. You have five minutes. Don't make me wait. We're going to end this...together." _

"Get out of there!" Tony nearly screamed.

The image began to flicker, jump, and then it disappeared completely. Every angle lost signal in the same fell swoop and the Avengers found themselves completely blind. They didn't wait to see if the image would return. Clint was marching hostages out even if he got shot in the process. They had to get a hold of him, warn him about Holloway and the potential others, and they had to stop this before it took anymore lives.

* * *

:(:):(:):

* * *

Finally, Clint moved. He passed by Ward's bleeding form on the floor, and led the hostages out the side door. There was a dead Secret Service agent a few feet away. He headed there first, searched the body, and came up with a single sidearm. He didn't get the chance to check the chamber before a group of HYDRA agents converged on him. They must have heard the shots, thought the worst, and came running. Clint dropped them with the same accuracy of his brother. None of them had a chance to return fire.

"Come on! Hurry!" Clint instructed, leading again. He herded the men and women onward for the front steps. A few more agents tried to stop him, but they were no match for his accuracy. As much as he preferred his bow, he was deadly with a handgun. Clint's trail of hostages breached the front steps with him in the lead. He lifted his hands over his head, gun facing up.

"I'm coming out!" He shouted to the line of officers who were desperate to shoot anything by this point. "I have hostages with me. I'm coming out! Don't shoot me!"

_"On your left, Clint. See us? Steve's coming to get them."_ Tony's voice buzzed in his ear.

Clint nodded to the people with him. Together, they cut a path across the lawn. Once outside the shadow of the front steps, the HYDRA snipers instantly set on them. The hostages screamed and scattered. Clint's team was suddenly caught between a firefight as the line of Army snipers took aim and fired.

"Down! Get down! Everyone drop!" Clint cried, grabbing the closest hostage and throwing him to the grass. His hands fell on two others and he brought them down too. Bullets outlined their bodies as the Mac-10's went wild. Some agents fell where they stood, others pitched forward off the roof until they free-fell through the air. A hot wave of hydraulic jets dropped over him. Clint lifted his head from beneath his arms for a moment to see Tony leaning over his back, taking the stray bullets for him.

"Fancy meeting you here." Clint said.

"I thought we were going to stop meeting like this." Tony said, a smile radiating in his voice. "You in one piece?"

"For now."

The shooting ceased. Clint jockeyed to his feet and pulled the liberated White House workforce up beside him. He shoved them along into the waiting arms of Thor and Rhodes. They could take over managing their further escape. Natasha came up to him with Steve beside her.

"He cut the video feed. We're blind in there." Natasha said.

"What? Why would he do that?" Clint asked. It didn't make sense. Barney was determined to make this a spectacle. Why would he turn off the feeds for this, his final act?

"You've got me, but I don't like it." Steve said. His face was severe. "What did he show you in his hand? We didn't get a clear picture of it."

"A dead man switch. If anyone takes him out, that room is going to go up like a roman candle. I need to get the Presidential Family out. My time's probably up, I have to get back in there." Clint moved to turn back in.

"Clint, wait!"

"I took out eight more. I don't know if there are many left. I saw at least thirty on my way in. Add my eight to yours."

"Clint!"

Barton paused halfway back to the front door to focus on Tony.

Tony went closer. "Holloway got him in. We don't know why, but Holloway was in on it. Clint, your brother may be too far gone."

Clint made a small sign at him. He knew. He didn't want to face that possibility, but it stared him into his soul like the gaze of a dire wolf. Clint had accomplished so much already. Ninety percent of the hostages were liberated, only one had been killed, and one other injured. Anyone would consider that a positive outcome overall. But that wasn't Clint's primary objective. He wanted to save one person in that room. This was his last chance to do it.

Heading back into the White House took on an eerie quality. Little, if any, HYDRA agents remained alive, whether by Clint's hands, the Avengers, or just Barney himself. It didn't make sense why Clint's brother killed so many. Every time he set out to make a point, he murdered one of his own men. He threatened many things, things Clint could only imagine he would resort to. After all, this was the same man who murdered Arrow in front of him, just so Clint could watch.

The same notion continued to pound through the back of his skull. Endgame. What was Barney's endgame in this? At first, Clint thought he knew. He thought Barney wanted him dead, but he had so many opportunities, why didn't he just take it? Did he really want to get noticed? He'd done that and more. Why had he waited so long to start letting hostages go? Just because Clint got there? That didn't make any sense.

Clint and his brother were close, but Barney took after their father in personality. Despite the blood between them, they never truly got along. Clint had more than a basket full of problems to lie at his brother's feet, from attempted murder, to kidnapping, even torture. Clint wouldn't soon forget what he'd suffered at Barney's hands. So why would Clint try and save him?

And why did Holloway help him in? How many others in that room were in place only to further Barney's final moments? Then Barney cut the video surveillance. His grandstand pulled right out from beneath the world during his climatic ending. It made no sense. It didn't add up and with the older Barton brother, things always had a finale. He didn't do things without purpose, it simply wasn't how he worked. He was wired for action, intent, and completion of the task. Nothing else mattered but the results. That's what got him in trouble with the Army, the FBI, and every other agency he worked for. Barney never delved in the law of right and wrong. If he was given a mission, it would get done however he saw fit, case closed.

As Clint got closer to the Oval Office, he could hear the shouts of an argument between two men. A blood trail flowed across the floor and disappeared down the hall. Ward must have gotten up and scrambled off for his life. Barney spared him. Why? The likelihood of Ward getting very far was minimal with the amount of snipers surrounding the place. Maybe Barney just gave him a slow death.

So if it wasn't Ward and Barney getting into it, the only men left alive in that room were –

Stepping into the doorway, Clint's blood turned to ice. The words filtered into his auricular device, translated in his brain, and bounced around like Mexican jumping beans.

_"I don't know how far this rabbit hole goes, Steve. I found Towns, that's as high up as I went. There could be more. I just don't know."_

_"Barney may be working for someone."_

_"This could go higher."_

_ "I don't know his endgame."_

_"None of it makes sense."_

_"I got you in."_

_"Holloway was in on it."_

Suddenly, all the pieces began falling into place.

* * *

Tell me what you think! I need to know:)

_Next time: –The World Burner-_

_And now we come full circle. the next chapter will be the climax of the action!_


	26. The World Burner

And... Here it is. Its the Climax people and its masterful to the last breath-stealing moment.

I've worked hard to sum up this crazy series for all of you. I hope I've done it justice.

* * *

**Chapter 25 –The World Burner—**

"I told you to make a hero out of me; to inspire some faith back into this country and in its leader. They were starting to breathe down my neck! Any week now, and that General Taggert and SHIELD remnant were going to come down on me! I needed plausible deniability. To be above reproof. _You_ gave me bodies!"

"You wanted an attack on the seat of our government, to emerge unscathed in a hail of wind and fire; I gave that to you. You're just getting greedy."

"Don't give me that condescending attitude! Your sins are no better than mine."

"I'm a mercenary. You're the man who hires mercenaries. To me, that _is_ a difference."

"Derek, what is he talking about? What is this?!"

"Shut up, Martha, give me a minute to think!"

Clint stood in the edge of the doorway for a moment longer than he should have. Was this even possible? Was this really happening? Barney murdered the witnesses or got rid of them. He cut the satellite images and broadcasts and sent Clint out with the hostages. All for this. To get a moment alone with . . .

With his boss.

Derek Bishop, President of the United States.

"To—Tony, are you getting this?" Clint whispered.

The door yanked open, and Clint was face to face with the untied President. He had to admit, the guy was a born actor. Clint considered making a grab for him, eliminating him from the equation first, and perhaps walking away with Barney, but without knowing the state of the wife and daughter he decided to be patient, submissive, and allowed the President to force him into the Oval Office. Clint caught his balance half way in. Everyone had moved. Katie was in her mother's arms, and Martha sat on the couch, looking just as terrified as before. Only now, a great deal of mass confusion had been sprinkled into the mix. First assessment told him that she knew nothing about her turn-coat husband.

"_You_ dragged him into this." Bishop went on, pacing madly. He motioned to the cameras. "Are those blasted things off?"

Barney, perched very calmly on the desk with the deadman switch still in his hands, nodded. "No one watching but us and God. And at this point, I think the big guy turned His back on what's happening here."

_"Clint, he's lying." _Tony whispered.

The marksman stiffened, but tried not to show it.

_"The minute you hit the steps, the feeds started up. Barney has some auxiliary unit running. Everything's still playing."_

_Why?_ Clint wondered. But now wasn't the time to marvel in silence. It was time to start a confrontation. "Barney, why are you doing this? The real reason! Not for money, or power, or recognition." Clint approached with caution, until he and Barney were very close. "I told you the truth. Tell me."

"Truth?" Bishop screamed, throwing his hands into the air. "He screwed up! I paid for a professional. The best. I was told you were a world burner. Someone who would stop at nothing to get the job done if the price was high enough. I paid your debts, and plenty on top of that. It took me a lot of bribes to get in this office. Do you know how long HYDRA's been working to install a President in this country?!"

Clint ignored him. His focus was trained on Barney like an archery target. Maybe all those things were what Bishop wanted out of Barney, but what his brother was actually there to do, Clint knew was very different. Barney was a gambler. He never went halfway; it was always all or nothing. Sometimes he won, most of the times he lost. That was how HYDRA must have sucked him in. His debts. It wouldn't be the first time Barney lost his life to the sins of his past. Holloway must have been HYDRA as well, organized the break in to the Oval Office, made sure all the right people were in play. Clint doubted the man ever expected to get a bullet to the head in the end.

Clint whispered to him. "Gambling debts. You got in over your head again, didn't you? HYDRA brought you in. They knew you were good. They helped you find Trick Shot and he trained you. Then his cancer came back. You wanted to save him, and the only way you knew how was some serum SHIELD kept hidden. Some experimental drug. You thought I had it. You tried to torture it out of me. I was with Trick when he died. He told me to look out for you...of what you might do."

"I saw it, Clint." Barney said. His eyes remained fixed on the trigger in his hands. Clint wondered whether he might flip the switch or not.

"What did you see?"

"Heaven. The skies opening up. The light shimmers after I killed him. I . . ." Barney looked at him, and there it was. That little piece of the brother Clint loved still coming back to himself. Through the trenches of guilt, pain, and mania, his normality returned for the briefest moment.

"Arrow?" Clint asked, startled. He honestly thought he'd dreamed up the entire thing. Watching as his wolf's body sank into the snow, the encounter with the spirit made of golden embers, and the race to the stars. He never thought anyone would believe him if he repeated the story. He could never have imagined Barney actually seeing it either.

"I'm not going up there, am I? I've done things. Things men don't come back from." Barney went on. His eyes hazed over, and the brother Clint knew descended into the pit again.

"Oh, boo hoo!" Bishop exclaimed. "My mommy didn't care. My daddy was a drunk. You know what really matters?" He held up the sidearm Clint never saw in his hand. The Avenger moved to disarm him instantly, but Bishop slid away from him. He grabbed his wife's arm, yanked her to standing and pressed the gun against her temple. She screamed in terror and shock. Katie leaped from the couch where she'd been abandoned, and grabbed her father's leg. She cried bitter, confused tears.

"No witnesses, matters. I was supposed to be on top at the end of this, and you know what? That's not going to change."

"Hang on a second. Just think about this!" Clint stepped closer, but Bishop jammed the gun into his wife's neck. Clint held up his hands a little.

Bishop shrugged. "Nothing to think about. First, he dies, then I shoot you. Then, I'll figure out an order for the rest of them. No one likes a President more than when he survives a terrorist attack and loses his darling little girl."

Clint indicated the device in Barney's still closed fist. "That is a dead man switch! You shoot him and this entire room is going to explode. It'll take all of us out. How are you going to enjoy gloating from your grave, huh!?"

"_Clint, this is circling the drain. We're coming in!" _Tony shouted.

"No, don't!" Clint yelled at the voice. He had to recover quickly from the undue comment. "Don't do this to them. If you do, we're all dead. Get that? _All of us_."

"_Clint, he's going to go for it!"_

Bishop raised his arm over his wife's shoulder and took aim for the archer's chest.

"No more negotiations."

He squeezed the trigger.

Clint watched the muzzle flash from a near horizontal plane. Shoulder-first, Barney barreled right into the side of him. Clint flew off balance, hitting the far column of the office. At the same moment the President fired, Barney did also. There was no direct headshot available, so Barney improvised. He used a ricocheted. He fired at the fireplace mantel, rebounded the bullet off the edge of a picture frame, and into the bust of a President on the right. Changing direction again, and with Trick Shot-style accuracy, Bishop's head snapped left. His body turned slightly. He rocked in a spasm, arched, and collapsed face first into the plate glass coffee table. The entire thing fell to the floor with a crash.

The bomb!

Clint skid to his brother's side. He hit his knees, fished for the remote, but Barney grabbed him by the collar and drew him closer. For the briefest moment, Clint thought he was going to get shot. That Barney would end his stint in the world by taking out the last of the Bartons. The younger brother wrapped his fist around Barney's as if to get him off, but he wouldn't let go.

"I'm …. so – " Barney forced out. Blood welled in his throat, leaked from his nose. The bullet had caught him in the right side of his neck, and cut a diagonal line up until it tore a chunk from his skull. A spray of arterial blood laid testament to the little time he had left.

Clint pulled himself free and clamped a hand down on the spray as if it would do any good. "Stop! Stop talking, I'm going to get us help."

"Sorry. Die. Gonna . . . Madre . . . two—Clint – two min – " Barney forced out, despite Clint's attempts to stop him. He got a boot under Clint's chest and, with a swift kick, forced his little brother off. His hands were empty. Beside him, drowning in the expanding pool of blood, was the detonator.

"Two . . .minutes . . . save . . . save yourself." His eyes rolled back to look at the bottom of the President's desk. The blood continued to spurt out of him, slower and slower, until, at last, it stopped all together.

"_CLINT, GET OUT OF THERE!"_

"RUN!" Barton screamed at the First Lady. He ran to them, scooping Katie Bishop in his arms as he went. They passed the Oval Office door, hit the corridor strewn in old fires and fresh blood, broke through the front door, and squeezed between the remnants of the jet and the outside world.

They weren't going to make it.

The blast radius was too great. Clint couldn't run, walk, or fly his way far enough to escape it. None of them could. The entire military garrison abandoned their posts like rats escaping a ship-board fire. Guns, tanks, trucks, were all left as they scrambled away from the blast zone. But where they were running away, some were coming closer. Steve led the charge with his shield reflecting the sun. He and Clint seemed to have the same idea at once. They would never reach each other in time, but the shield could.

Steve threw it. Clint had to adjust the girl in order to grab the razor edge with his left hand. He threw himself to the White House lawn for the second time that day, with the First Lady and her daughter sandwiched beneath him. He pulled his legs in, angled the shield over their bodies, and waited.

In seconds, everything erupted. Clint felt the ground fall out from beneath him. He held tight to the Captain's shield, refusing to let it, or those hostages beneath him, go. He landed, something snapped, and his eyes blacked out.

* * *

:(:):(:):

* * *

The explosion hit like a kick to the gut. Sam threw his wings across Natasha in an attempt to protect her from the blast, while Rhodes, Tony, and Cap hunkered down in an Avenger-sized pile up. Thor stood ahead of them, and swung Mjolnir in invisibly fast circles to try and break the back of the explosion's power. Even he was thrown off by the sheer rage of it.

The Hulk leaped ahead of them all. Circumventing the other Avengers, he stepped right in over the Captain's shield and braced above it. His body took the full impact of one hundred pound's worth of C4. The fireball it created flew outward in all directions, littering the city block in glass, plaster, concrete, and granite. The windows in the Library of Congress shattered. The roof to the Lincoln Memorial cracked, and an unmendable rift cut through the Korean War Memorial. The flames mushroomed up in clouds blanketed in black smoke and super-heated ozone. It felt like forever until, at last, the world settled.

Still, the Hulk held his ground. He waited for the falling debris to stop landing, for the Avengers to startle back to their feet, and others to begin to stir. The gamma goliath took a step back and looked down at the Captain's shield. The others weren't coming out of their daze fast enough for him. So the Hulk decided to lift the metal topper himself and peer at the contents beneath. Hawkeye was under that shield, and he liked Hawkeye. He didn't want bad things to happen to him.

The shield wouldn't pull free with the prodding from his index finger and thumb. He pulled a little harder, but still whatever it was attached to refused to let go.

"WHOA! Careful, big guy, that's his arm!" Steve warned. He didn't push the Hulk out of the way, he knew better than that, but he did place himself between Clint and the Hulk. More gently, Steve fed the shield out of Clint's arm and set it aside.

Clint was on top of the three-man pile. Blood trailed from his left ear, and his ankle lay at an odd angle. Steve wanted to keep him as still as possible, but that was hard to do when the body beneath him started to move. The First Lady dug herself out. Katie Bishop, still clinging to Clint's chest, took more convincing to force her to let him go. Shockingly, between Clint's own body, Steve's shield, and the Hulk, both of them managed to get away unscathed.

"He's dead! Oh my God, he's dead!" Martha exclaimed, looking down at the fallen Avenger. The others reached their side and knelt down to try and keep Clint straight should he suddenly shake to his senses.

"He'll be fine, ma'am, he's a professional at surviving the impossible. Eventually we're going to have to start calling him Deadpool." Steve told her to try and calm the woman down. After all she'd just been through, he knew the likelihood of success was low. Rhodes took over getting the First Lady out of immediate danger with the child.

Over their heads, the Hulk let out a rib-rattling roar. He leaned over, stomped his foot, and directed his rage right into Clint's face. When he had no reaction to the first, he did it again. And again.

"Why does he keep doing that?" Sam shouted above the noise.

"He's trying to help wake him up." Steve explained. He turned to Tony.

"Ambulance coming?"

"Not waiting for that, I'm going to go find a paramedic."

Natasha touched Clint's arm, afraid to do anything else. Beside her, the Hulk roared again. He stomped one foot, slammed both fists into the earth, and actually managed to bury them half way in. Still, Clint didn't wake.

Full of a new kind of fear he didn't like, the Hulk looked down at Natasha. "Hurt."

"I know. We're getting him help. Tony went for it." Natasha said.

"Bruce." The Hulk replied with a definitive edge in his voice. He didn't hesitate to change. With his own form doing nothing productive to help, he naturally decided to give in to someone that might. The Hulk folded down, faded out, and left the sore and tired doctor with a fistful of baggy sweat pants behind.

Bruce looked around at the sheer chaos. Men and women littered the grounds with plaster, wrought iron, concrete, and everything else imbedded as far as the eye could see. The sheer heat coming from the blazing White House was enough to roast meat.

As Bruce took it all in, he couldn't help himself in saying, "Well...This seems horrible."

* * *

:(:):(:):

* * *

Natasha's face hovered over him like a specter emerging from the rings of black around her face. She looked positively ethereal. He wanted to reach out for her, but his hands felt so heavy.

"Clint?" her lips moved, he wanted to trace them beneath his fingertips.

Her face faded away again.

. . . . . .

Something clicked through his body in a steady, pulsing, rhythm. He was in a tube, and it was white all around. Dim lights flickered on occasion, while the quiet filtered in. He couldn't hear. Couldn't move. There was no one beside him.

Natasha's face didn't come back.

. . . . . .

Someone squeezed his hand. He didn't realize at first that his eyes were open. All of a sudden, he became aware of the present, as if he'd disappeared into himself and then returned again. Tony sat on the bed beside him, his face turned away as he spoke to someone. Clint couldn't see or hear them. So he simply watched the back of Stark's head.

_Where am I?_ He wondered. The truth was easy to guess after he looked around once or twice. Hospitals tended to have a traditional smell he never got used to. At least, nowadays, he stopped running from them with a scream in his throat.

Natasha moved out from Clint's side. He tracked her movement and, when she saw him, everyone seemed to appear all at once. Bruce, Thor, Steve, Natasha and Tony, even the briefly introduced Sam and the generally known Rhodes rounded out the flank about his left side. They jockeyed for position, but since Tony had the firmest grip on the mattress, one would think the arms of Thor would not overcome him. Thor may have failed, but Natasha did not. With an arm against his windpipe, she practically peeled Tony backwards until he hit the floor beneath them. She nearly sat in Clint's lap.

He reached up to fuss with the mask on his face. He didn't like the cold oxygen blowing up his nose. Natasha initially held it still and batted his hands away. After a brief conversation Clint couldn't see to be a part of, she allowed him to take it off.

"We're leaving. Tony's arranging a med-flight to New York."

"I need a med-flight?"

"Yeah, you do."

He harrumphed a little and settled down again. The last thing he wanted was to sit in bed and not be able to hear anyone. He must have closed his eyes, because it took Steve shaking his arm to get him up again. He looked around to find the Captain. Natasha had moved away at some point. He must have lost time.

"Someone's here to see you." Steve said. Cap stepped to the rest of the group, allowing the two newcomers forward. Clint had trouble focusing his eyes on them. After a few minutes of staring at them, they finally cleared.

"Oh . . . hi. Hey . . . how," He pressed his hands into the thin hospital bed as if he may push himself up. Five hands belonging to the Avengers made sure he did not succeed.

"Don't get up, please, it's all right." The First Lady, Martha Bishop, told him. Little Katie stood in front of her mother and tugged at the stray threads on Clint's sheet.

"They said that you couldn't hear and – "

"I can read lips. Just talk normally, I can figure it out."

A smile tugged her lips, and she nodded. "I wanted to see you. To thank you. I don't even know which way is up, really."

Someone new appeared behind her and rubbed her shoulder. He wore a black Secret Service flak jacket. No doubt the First Lady and her daughter would be in protected custody for a while until they could be considered clear of her husband's business dealings. The man had a sympathetic look, and a stunned one to match. What Clint did not see there was a helping of distrust. It gave him a little hope that the woman he saved was worth it.

"It's fine, hey, look that's what I went in for. I wasn't leaving until I could get as many people out as I could. That meant you and Katie too."

"I feel like such a fool." She put a hand up to her cheek. Steve produced a kleenex and handed it over. She swiped it across her eyes, steeled herself, and said her peace. "When you walked into the room, I recognized you. From your picture on TV. And I thought . . . I wondered why those people hired to protect my family ever let a man like you inside."

Her tears welled up she dropped her chin to her chest and was talking again, but Natasha pointed out that Clint couldn't tell what she was saying. Embarrassed, Martha looked at him.

"I watched the news those months ago. I thought you were as terrible as everyone made you out to be. Reality TV, trash in the making. When you came inside, I thought that was it. They gave up on us. We were all going to die, and that was it." She leaned over and held his hand in hers. "I'm so sorry, I was wrong. I just . . . I can't even imagine the things you have done for this country, for me, and for my little girl. We were all so wrong about you."

"That's OK." He told her, settling down a little in his pillows. His body felt heavy again, and soon he needed to take another long nap. "That means I did my job correctly. I _needed_ to make the world turn on me to go undercover. And I had to go undercover to save a lot of people I cared about. My team trusted me enough to let me do that."

"You have a wonderful family." She said, and he could tell she meant it. Maybe not about Barney, but Natasha, Tony, and everyone else around him.

Clint knew he couldn't keep himself awake much longer. He switched his focus to Katie standing by his hand. "How you feeling, kid?"

The girl smiled, picked up something, and placed it on the bed. Clint noticed it was his bullet proof tank top.

"Did you keep it safe?" Clint asked. If there was one weakness in his life, it was kids, and the other Avengers knew that very well.

"Yeah."

"Guess what?"

"What?"

Clint lifted his hand a little to point at Tony. "Do you know who that guy is?"

Her head wagged left and right.

"That's Iron Man. He's undercover. Out of his suit, because he likes to set off all the metal detectors. Is there something you want to say?"

The child smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Iron Man."

Tony tried to remain immune to her adorable declaration, but he failed – miserably. "You're welcome."

"Katie? Why don't you do something important for me?" Clint picked up the shirt and handed it back. "You keep that safe. If you ever get scared, or if you miss your dad, just put it on, OK? It will make you feel big and strong. And the world won't be so scary. Will you do that for me?"

She picked up the shirt again and held it to her chest, as if she had been hoping he'd say that.

"That's a good girl. Listen to your mom. If you ever need me, she can find me, OK?"

"OK, Mr. Hawkeye. And . . . And you know what?"

"What?"

"You're my favorite hero."

Clint smiled. "And you're my best little helper."

Martha squeezed his hand again, and Clint's eyes closed on their own accord. He forced them open, but it was obvious he'd run out of strength. She leaned over him and gave him a kiss on his cheek. Katie bounded up, and repeated her mother's gesture. Clint wanted to say a better goodbye. He opened his mouth to try and say something, but he was simply too tired.

The First Lady, Katie, and the three man secret service's men headed out together. Two others replaced them in the doorway. Clint recognized the clothes as Air Force. Maybe this was his ticket home, come to collect him. His eyes closed. This time, no one tried to wake him up. He'd been through enough the last few months to warrant a time of undisturbed peace.

What Clint missed, was the meeting between the two Air Force members and the Avengers. They had heard, through the grapevine, that Tony was trying to get his private helicopter down from LaGuardia to med-flight them out. They volunteered to replace that helicopter with their own Quinjet. In the hours following the White House explosion, Clint had become something of a phenomenon. For the first time, everyone with a television knew exactly the value Clint had on the Avengers team. He had coordinated the rescue of over thirty hostages, and assisted in exposing the head of the HYDRA infection. He put his own body on the line to take as many souls out of that Oval Office as he could. That was a sacrifice the country rallied behind.

One of the pilots was Howard Stanley. He owed his father's life to Clint. He watched those monitors in shock as Barney put the first bullet in his father, and had the opportunity to hug the senior Stanley in the hospital after Clint nearly took a bullet to liberate the man. His co-pilot's sister was in the White House at the time. Steve, Natasha, and Tony's team freed her in the West Wing.

Clint didn't hear any of it. He rested pleasantly in the arms of Morpheus while those allies he created and his extended family began to grow, expand, and develop a life of its own. Clint rested easy, knowing that life was going to a time better than before. He didn't have to think. Didn't have to run. He left it all in the hands of his friends.

* * *

Please review! I'd like to know if you enjoyed this crazy ride:)

_Next time: –ESCAPE THE TOWER!-_

_coming up next, its the LAST chapter (we still have the epilogue:)_


	27. ESCAPE THE TOWER!

THE LAST CHAPTER!

* * *

Chapter 26 –ESCAPE THE TOWER!—

He often woke in the morning without knowing where he was. Sometimes it was due to being knocked unconscious and transported somewhere in the arms of unknown operatives, others it was his own carelessness at falling asleep in some random location and forgetting about that after he woke up. It had been nearly eight months since Clint woke to the familiar scent that surrounded him. When his eyes opened, he already had an idea of where he was; home.

His former SHIELD gear lay piled on his duffle bag beside the six drawer dresser at the end of his bed. The hard box spring beneath him had the same annoying spring that set just to the left of his spine. He dug the back of his head into his pillow (a pile of dirty clothes stuffed into a pillow case) and looked up to the wall above his head board.

The black collapsing bow from his SHIELD days hung there with his quiver beneath. Over forty arrows were stacked within. The shafts looked new, the fletches had a different design than what Clint remembered. Apparently Tony had been fabricating. Beneath the bow remained the old Post-it note Steve stuck to the wall almost two years prior.

_Promised I'd give your bow back, didn't say anything about arrows. Feel better soon, and maybe you'll earn them._

_-Steve_

Clint smiled. As his eyes passed down from the wall he noticed the fluid tree resting beside his bed with a set of crutches. The line of life support fed across the spare sheet of a bedspread and ended in the back of his hand. Typically, Clint's first reaction on waking like that would be removing the offending article and head off to see who else was up. The last time he had the opportunity to do that, Banner wanted to throttle him. Eventually Clint decided to leave it be. With all that fluid being pushed into his system, his bladder began to protest. He assessed the rest of his body to determine whether getting up at all would be worth the pain.

His chest felt like someone had used him as a dance floor. His shoulder was still sore, and the crutches were apparently for the air cast someone strapped to his right ankle. That side of him had the total circumference of a mango compared to his left which was wrapped in an ace bandage. Both throbbed though he imagined the crutches meant to keep him off the right one. At first he didn't notice the fact that he couldn't hear until he checked the plastic clock on his wall. The ticking usually got on his nerves, but not today.

Clint lifted his hand, wincing as his shoulder protested. He probed the inside of his ear, but didn't find the miniature transmitter. Tony must have taken them out. It was possible the explosion damaged it.

"Tony?" Clint called out. He worked hard to make his voice sound similar with and without being able to hear himself, but the effect was always disconcerting. He raised his voice and called out again a little louder. He waited in bed but after a while no one came to him.

He decided to roll over a little and slowly angled his feet to the floor. He reached around the side of the fluid rack and grabbed the crutches. It took him five tries to get up off the box spring, but finally, breathlessly, he got himself to his feet . . . or at least one foot. His left knee threatened to give out on him at first. Whatever scans they'd done on him probably didn't pick up the pulled tendon hiding there.

Allowing the line of fluids to follow him on its wheeled rack, Clint headed to the bathroom first to take care of business. He felt fortunate that the important parts below his belt were in full working order. The bed seemed inviting enough when he hobbled his way back to the main room, but after so long away from the Tower, he didn't want to spend the morning by himself.

It took him a few minutes to make it to the door, but longer to find his way to the living room. His knee pounded with every footfall, but his right foot couldn't bear any weight unless he cried his way through the pain. The crutches themselves added a second level of discontent. The mending shoulder had trouble taking the wear and tear of forward propulsion and his tight chest could only tolerate short shallow breaths. He tired quickly. When he rounded the corner into the living room/kitchen he tried to breathe a sigh of relief, if only his ribs allowed it.

"You're up!" Pepper exclaimed. She blew past the kitchen island, rubbed her hands down her pajama pants to dust them off, and drew him into her embrace. Though he knew she didn't grab him nearly as hard as she normally did, he still couldn't restrain the sharp intake of breath when his injuries growled at him. Pepper held him a little tighter, driving up Clint's lack of pain tolerance.

"Pep—" he cautioned, groaning.

"I don't care. You deserve it after what you did to me. Clint, I was so worried! I don't know why you guys think I couldn't handle you going off by yourself or undercover or whatever but I can! Next time just tell me, ok?"

Though Clint could understand her point, the way she made it hurt. He sucked up the discomfort and rode it out until she decided he'd had enough and pulled away. She smiled at him.

"I missed you." She said.

"I missed you too." Clint replied. "And I'm sorry. I know you were worried, and I know I said some things but I swear I didn't mean. Those agents were tailing you and I thought if I came out with the truth you were going to be in danger. I thought I was doing the right thing when I drove you away."

"Well it hurt, and I do understand why you thought you were right. I still think you're an idiot, but somehow I don't think that's ever going to change. Go sit down before you fall there." Pepper indicated the couch beside Tony's flat screen television.

Clint and she both had a habit, during times of stress or illness, to evacuate their rooms and beds to take up residence on what Banner deemed as the "sick couch". Clint could still be part of the business and conversation but at the same time pass out in a nest of blankets and pity. They both came down with a nasty flu and spent their recovery stuffed on opposite couches with their nostrils packed in tissues. She knew him well enough to guess that if Clint took the time to extract himself from bed, his entire object was to find the couch and pass out again.

"Oh, wait!" She grabbed a small silver case off the kitchen island and opened it up. Inside two miniature transmitters waited for him.

"Perfect." Clint said. He picked them up, inserting them one at the time into his ears. They switched on instantly and the sound quality wasn't that bad either. He gave her a thumbs up.

"Here, let me help you with that!" a man said. He appeared from the living room and put a hand on Clint's trailing cart of IV fluids.

Clint looked over and was shocked to see Peter Parker, part time Spider-Man extraordinaire and his secret counterpart in taking down HYDRA.

"Parker? What are you doing here? How did you even get in here?" Barton asked.

"He dropped by last night." Pepper explained as she returned to the kitchen.

"I brought over your stuff from the apartment. After watching the news, I guessed you wouldn't be going back there any time soon." Peter explained.

"Did you think to grab my futon?" Clint almost jumped to ask.

To that Peter looked both ways and closed in a little. "Yeah, after I found like a trillion dollars stuffed in it. Where the heck did you get it all?!"

"I don't even want to know."

Clint tried to turn his head at Tony's voice behind him but could only go so far. Stark walked over beside Peter and crossed his arms in front of Clint.

"I put it all in a bank account. You know, like a normal person? I forged your name on all the documents." He produced a black card and held it out to his friend. "I'm serious. I don't want to know."

Clint smiled and ignored the card. "Hey, I'm just paying you back for those loans I took out."

"You have borrowed three and a half million dollars from me in the three years we've known each other. I have not only adjusted for inflation, but tacked on a twenty-percent APR, and miscellaneous charges for destroying three levels of my tower during that fight we sort-of had. I paid myself." Tony slipped the card into Clint's front pocket, not taking no for an answer. "You have four billion, two million, five hundred thousand and ten cents left."

Clint pulled it back out of his pocket and tried to hand it back. "Donate it to someone."

"Clint, you don't just donate four billion dollars to one person."

"Invest it in something then. I don't know what to do with it."

"Apparently, because your idea of investing meant stuffing it in your mattress. I already invested three-quarters of it. You now have an extra four million. You're welcome."

Exacerbated, Clint looked over to Pepper for help, waving the Amex Black in his hand. "Pepper, he's outsmarting me with numbers again."

"Clint, go lay down." She replied.

Clint's face sank and he settled on Tony's face. Stark folded his arms. Clint knew he was stuck. Grumbling to himself he stuffed the black card back in his pocket and hobbled his way to the couch with Peter trailing off behind him with the stainless steel tree. Anticipating Clint's future needs, someone already took the necessary steps of lining the couch in three separate blankets, the remote was within reach on the center table along with two pills and a glass of ice water, and a fruit rollup sat opened for him. Before he sat, Clint looked at all the tender touches done just for him and remembered that at last, he was home. He forgot the things he missed about the Tower. Like friends, being able to rely on others, and touches like this. This made everything he did, suffered through, and survived worth it.

Without being asked, Tony stayed beside him and took the two crutches from beneath Clint's arms. He handed them to Peter who eagerly rushed off to set them against the wall. Tony held Clint by the arms as the archer lowered himself onto the couch and once he was settled, grabbed a throw pillow and handed it to Parker to set under Clint's swollen ankle.

"Do you need ice for your leg, Clint?" Pepper called to him.

"Yes, please. And one for my knee."

"What did you do to your knee?" Tony asked.

"I think I tore something when I got blown up." Clint replied nonchalantly.

"You're such a problem child."

Clint grinned. "But I'm _your_ problem child."

Tony ignored him and headed into the kitchen to help Pepper. He paused by the island, watching as his fiancé worked a couple ice bags out of the pull out freezer. She smiled over her shoulder at him as he leaned beside her. They had no reason to share the thoughts both endured in their individual minds. Even seeing the interaction between Clint's co-conspirator, a boy that dressed as a spider for a living, was enough to settle them. Their friend was back, alive, and he wasn't leaving any time soon.

Peter perched on the coffee table with his legs pulled up under his chin out of convenience. He wrapped his arms over the front of them and drew in close again to Clint. It made him look even more like a child.

"This is so cool." He whispered.

"Did you see the food court?" Clint asked, smiling.

"There are trees growing in that place and like, an indoor Central Park. I can't even comprehend it."

"Did they let you see the lab?"

"Only the first level which had a flying car, an ARC reactor, and an Iron Man suit. Thor was there. The real Thor."

Clint snickered then hissed and stopped to hold his ribs. He sank down against the arm rest in misery. There were few injuries he tolerated and shots against his ribs were not included in that whatsoever. Peter leaned forward as if to do something but not knowing what, he leaned back again.

"It's fine. Thor? He'll be up soon probably. Did Tasha give you the tour?"

"There's a tour?"

"Maybe later, then."

"Knee's not broken. I double checked with Banner." Stark said. He appeared over the back of the couch and placed a silicone bead ice pack on Clint's left knee. He arranged the second over Clint's foot.

"Bruce Banner?" Peter asked, impossibly more excited than before.

Tony hiked a thumb at the kid but spoke to Clint. "He's serious?"

"High school, Tony. You remember that brief six month period in your life."

"Is that what that was? I thought my rich daddy sent me on a self-teach field trip to Cabo." Tony joked, but in a way didn't. Clint knew full well there was no love lost between Stark and the memory of his own father. In the wake of Stark's impressive brain, Peter could only stare at him in awe and wonder. No doubt he held the same gaze for the great pyramids, or nuclear particle theory. Clint could never fully understand the world of hyper intelligence that Peter, Tony, and Banner all belonged to.

"Did you really finish high school in six months?" Peter beamed.

Tony arched his brow. "Actually it was three weeks, I just really liked Cabo."

Clint wanted to smack him but the attempt left him in a state of laughing, gasping, and agony. Stark grabbed the pills off the table and handed them to the ailing archer. After Clint popped them into his mouth, Tony gave him the glass of water and made sure he drank it. Satisfied, he tapped Peter.

"Do you sit on everyone's tables where you come from?"

In response Peter shot into the air.

Clint spit his water back into his cup in his attempt to laugh again. This time he did whimper as Tony hit him on the back to help clear his lungs out. Clint coughed, cried, and collapsed into his pillows in exhaustion. He couldn't sit up any longer.

"Tony, stop beating up the kid." Clint said.

"CLINT OF BARTON! MY ASGARDIAN BROTHER!"

Peter nearly launched up and back as Thor arrived in all his glory from the hallway. He strode forward with his red cape flowing behind him in the windless hall and hammer swinging in time with his stride. If Peter vibrated in excitement before it didn't compare to the latest swoon. Clint waved a little at Thor.

"Hi, Thor."

Thor dropped his hammer on the table, marring the already scratched top Tony had long ago stopped complaining about. He first grabbed Peter by both shoulders and shook him a little.

"And the Man of Spiders! Greetings to you! I invite you as a friend as you have worked to assist my brother in his difficult times. I will honor your memory should you be killed before I."

Peter's mouth dropped open, but he said nothing. With a single finger he pushed his glasses further up his nose.

"And my brother! You have returned to us at last! How fairs your health?"

Clint exchanged a glance with Tony. "You _were_ on Alfheimr, right?"

Tony shrugged, resting back into what had been deemed his arm chair. "Glad you said it, I can't even pronounce the name of the place."

"Alfheimr like one of the nine realms?" Peter asked.

"We made a side trip." Clint said. "I got shot there, stopped a rebel incursion, and cleared the Elven name in the eyes of Asgard. Then you know, I come home and my brother just decided to kidnap the president of the free world. Who I freed and then got blown up. It's been a busy week."

Thor grinned. "It is my joy that you have returned to us, my great brother."

"Yeah, and my great pain in the butt. Thor, can you grab some chairs and drag them over. I'm sure we're all going to end up over here soon." Bruce said. Thor's bulk hid the good doctor from view initially, yet angled himself around the mass shoulder plates to get to Clint's side. Banner nodded a hello to Peter. "Morning, Mr. Parker. You're here early. Don't you have class?"

Like the young man he was, Peter fell back into student roll instantly. "Uh, no, Dr. Banner. I have free period for the first two hours."

"Graduation's next month?"

"June, sir, so a little bit longer than that."

Banner nodded in his new and improved teacher-like way. Clint watched the entire exchange with the greatest enjoyment. Bruce had really come into his own.

"Heading to college after that?"

Peter shrugged a little. "I'm, um. I'm not sure yet. I've got my aunt to take care of and all."

"Consider it, at least." Bruce told him. He hiked a thumb to Clint. "If I could get this guy who never even entered high school to go to an emergency med course, I think I can convince an eskimo to buy sandals."

"Hey. I resisted." Clint protested weakly.

Thor arrived with five chairs and arranged them on the opposite side of the coffee table. He planted the awkward Peter into one, sat himself, and extended a third for Bruce. Instead Bruce looked over to Clint.

"So, tell me what doesn't hurt? I figure that's a shorter list."

"My lips are ok. My left elbow feels all right. Three toes on the right foot aren't bothering me. The middle three."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I forgot about that mouth." He indicated the ice bag on Clint's knee. "What happened there?"

"I think I tore something."

"So you don't have a leg to stand on, is that what you're saying?"

Clint smiled. "Yeah."

"You fractured that ankle. Not bad but you need to stay off it for a few weeks. I'll consider a wheelchair until we can scan your knee. You bruised some ribs, from either the bullet you didn't take or the explosion. It'll heal on its own after a while. Sprained wrist, bruised liver, and how does that hip feel? The one you broke a while back?"

Clint shifted his hips. "They're both fine."

"Ok, good. Your blood values suck. You're lucky if you could form a clot so don't stub your toe or something. The doctor's prescribing iron and vitamins till you get back on your feet."

"Is that why I'm exhausted?"

"Most likely."

"Clint had his shoulder shot through by an arrow on Alf-land." Tony mentioned.

Bruce held his hand out for Clint to take it. "I felt it was off when I shook your hand. I had the doctor's take a look at it. They said you have a good deal of scar tissue building up. How's the range of motion? Did they heal it up any when you were off world?"

"Yes they did, but it was pretty jacked up. It feels tight."

Slowly Clint allowed his friend to adjust his shoulder. Bruce rotated the joint extended it up, back, sideways, and had no trouble identifying the forming scar tissue trying to hold his shoulder in place. Clint took his upper body seriously. His entire life surrounded around his ability to use a bow. The last thing he needed was a stiff trigger arm.

"It's tighter." Bruce assessed. "You've got to work it, don't let it sit and stiffen up, but don't overdo it either, ok? I don't think you should try pulling your hard bows. Maybe use the lower weights for a while. I'm sure Tony won't mind having his training partner back. I think I've made a poor stand in of it myself."

"Yeah, it gets a little tiresome when I land a good kidney punch, you Hulk out, and suddenly I'm the one going through a wall." Tony said.

Clint grinned.

"Ok! Finally all set!" Pepper announced. She left the kitchen and headed into the living room with a tray she'd stolen from the food court. She slipped between Tony's chair and Clint's, avoiding the pinch Stark gave her as she squeezed by, and set the entire thing down on the table.

Thor nearly fainted.

"Four eggs, eight slices of bacon, two slices of toast, three pancakes with syrup, butter, whip cream, and chocolate chips, a bowl of sliced apples, kiwi, bananas, and granola (cut into the shapes of arrow heads might I add), and…" She lifted the tall glass and plunked it in Clint's hands. "One chocolate protein shake with all your favorite ingredients."

Clint's eyes took in the food on the table, the shake in his hands, then Pepper's face. He couldn't decide at first if the entire thing was for him or not, but according to Pepper's very serious look it did in fact belong to him and she expected him to consume every bit of it. After a moment she remembered something and produced a straw from her pocket which she plunked into his drink.

"Uh," Clint was at a loss of words for a second. "Is there peanut butter in this too?"

She smiled. "What do you think?"

He tasted it. There was peanut butter. "Pepper, I missed you."

She planted a kiss on his forehead and grabbed him by both ears to shake his head. "And you will. Not. Ever. Do. That. Again."

"Nope. I think you've stopped my roaming."

"Good."

"But, seriously, this is a lot of food."

"It's my fault, and Bruce's. I cooked, he said you needed it." She released him and eased back until she plopped down on Tony's lap.

"You've lost forty-two pounds since last August." Bruce told him.

"Isn't it just mildly creepy that you know that?"

"Eat your food, Clint."

"What If I'm anorexic?"

"Then I will place a tube in your stomach while you're sleeping and force feed you for the next thirty-five years."

Clint sipped his shake. It was good to be home.

"Hey! Look who's up! Tash, come here!" Steve left the hallway from the elevator side dressed in his morning gym attire. Peter stood in his chair to greet him with eyes the size of saucers. Steve patted him on the shoulder like a father might do to a 50s era son.

Natasha walked in behind him with a towel working the damp out of her hair. She waved a little hello to everyone and headed for the back of the couch. She leaned over and kissed Clint before even saying hello.

"Morning." He whispered against her lips.

She reached down to him, pressing in a little closer for an even deeper exchange before pulling away with Clint's protein shake in her hands. Before he could protest, and as Pepper laughed, she sucked down two decent mouthfuls and returned it to him.

"Sneaky." He said.

"You fall for it every time." She said.

Steve patted Clint's leg to get his attention off of the red head. "How you feeling? You know you almost died again. We're going to start calling you Cat Eye if you keep doing this to us."

"Yeah, well, someone's got to save the President, right?"

"Right, but that someone doesn't have to get himself blown up in the process. You saved that little girl, his wife, and all those hostages. You should be proud."

As everyone was distracted by Steve and Natasha's entry, Thor leaned forward and snatched a slice of bacon off Clint's plate. He slowly fed it into his mouth and sat back with the satisfied crunch of a stolen breakfast. He shared a private glance with Peter and the large Asgardian smiled.

"I don't even remember what happened after I went down. They got out. I'm happy. What about my brother?" Clint said.

To that Steve did something Clint was very familiar with. Before he gave out potentially damaging news, the soldier always took a second to look into the other person's eyes. It was as if he needed to gauge exactly what the fall out of the news would be should he decide to share. With that single look, Clint knew the worst.

"Did you see it? His body?" He asked sincerely. Natasha, who perched on the couch back leaned a hand down to massage his sore shoulder.

"I did."

"You say it was him?"

"There wasn't much left. I'll be honest. But what the scene crew found can't be discounted. There's no denying it."

"Was he buried?"

"We wanted to wait for you. To see if you had some place in mind."

"And his body hasn't been stolen, walked, off, or come back to life?"

"No."

Clint nodded, leaning down again. "Ok. Good."

The room settled with the information for a long stretch as Clint unwillingly shared his protein shake with Natasha sitting above him. Steve settled back into his own arm chair at the opposite end of the couch from Tony. This was back to their normal. Couch in the middle, Stark's chair on one side, Steve's on the other, with the rest of the Avengers scattered around them. The smell of good food permeated the air and no doubt tempted the stomachs of everyone. Pure respect and concern for their colleague prevented them from stealing more than Thor's procured slice of bacon. When the allotted time of silence ended, Clint sent a hand toward Parker.

"Guess you guys all know him. Peter Parker, meet the Avengers. Avengers, meet Peter Parker."

"I esteem this Man of Spiders! He has cared for my brother and for that he has my provision." Thor laughed loud enough to cause Bruce to angle his ear away. The Asgardian slapped Peter on the back. Peter flew off his chair. The others snickered at the show of Thor-ian gratitude.

"Thor is very happy. He doesn't know an earthly ways to say that without accidentally breaking people." Clint explained.

Peter seemed so happy to just be sitting next to Thor he couldn't mention how much it hurt to be knocked upside the head by him.

Steve asked the question everyone else wondered. "And all the times we asked if we could help and you turned us down? No offense, son," He said to Peter.

Peter adjusted his glasses again. Captain America spoke to him and called him son!

"I didn't need any big shows. I took care of everything myself, Parker helped with some on-the-side photography for me."

"Yeah he did. I saw that wall in the rat-hole you call an apartment. Agent Towns? Shaw? I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see the evidence with my own eyes. You lived two blocks from me, Clint, and you never once stopped in to say hi?"

"That might have blown my cover so no, I didn't even consider it." Clint replied. It was funny seeing Steve mad at things. It happened so rarely.

"I took all of your books, notes, and surveillance footage to the Congressional Subcommittee yesterday morning. They will either use it for whatever HYDRA agents remain incognito, or they will bury it themselves. It's out of our hands at least."

"Doesn't even seem to matter anymore. Nothing I did even helped. HYDRA still took us out and a lot of good agents are dead because of it." Natasha's hand found its way into his. She clasped his fingers beneath her own and squeezed.

"Don't say that." She whispered.

Steve tapped Clint's good leg to get his attention. One of Steve's serious talks was on its way. "Look, Fury warned me that something was up. Tasha didn't exactly share that with me at first," he squinted at Natasha who stuck her tongue out at him. "But we did get warned. If it wasn't for you letting on to Fury, then none of us would be here right now. A lot of our names were on that list, Clint. The one HYDRA created when the Heli-carriers launched. We would have been killed and there was no coming back from that. You stopped it. Don't sell yourself short on this. You sacrificed more than I could have imagined."

Without saying it, Clint knew the Captain referred to Arrow. It would take time to come to terms with the forever absence of his dire wolf but he knew that mourning wasn't endured alone. Everyone had loved the wolf, whether they cared to admit it or not. It helped having been away from the Tower for so long already. Returning now he noticed a few changes to the room's layout and the apparent absence of Arrows things. Normally the wolf had his bed in the corner with Tony's handmade box full of dog toys overflowing beside it. Someone took away the stainless steel bowls from the kitchen too. Seeing them missing hurt him, but it hurt a little less than seeing them unused.

"That was my job." Clint said.

"And you did it. Oh, now that I'm thinking about it, do you remember the First Lady dropping by to see you in the hospital?"

"I was in the hospital?"

Bruce smiled. "You were sedated. You might not recall. She essentially gave you an official pardon from public opinion. And her daughter says you're her favorite hero and wants to grow up to be you someday. She brought by some flowers last night, her daughter drew you a picture, it's on the fridge, and they wanted to know what your favorite food is." Picking the fruit roll up from beside the plate, he handed it over. "Apparently Rhodes talked to her and she bought these. Six boxes of them."

Clint took it, handed his shake to Natasha, and peeled it open. Not only was it red and blue colored, his favorite, but also had little shape cut outs. The First Lady elevated to one of the favorite women in his life. "I think I might have to vote in the next election."

"Keeping eating them and you will gain all that weight back tomorrow." Bruce warned.

Too exhausted to work out the shapes, Clint peeled the candy from its wrapper and stuck the entire wad into his mouth like a big league gum ball. He settled against the arm rest again with the three down pillows trapped between himself and the couch. He liked having his friends again and sitting around the room bantering back and forth. He thought they may talk like this all morning long.

But he was wrong. His eyes felt heavy. He decided to close them, just for a second. But that second stretched onward. Nearly instantly he fell asleep. Natasha knew he couldn't be up for long. Though she didn't have all the details from the impromptu trip to Alfheimr, she did know how hard Clint worked at the White House. He was safe again. She reached up and grabbed the blanket by his feet. He rolled into the back of the couch, giving her a chance to tuck the top of the comforter around his shoulders.

"He just fell asleep, didn't he?" Steve said.

Natasha nodded.

"Well, he deserves a little break. When he wakes up, though, we're starting on some conditioning training. High protein, and physical therapy until he turns back into a normal Avenger again." Steve stood out of his arm chair. "I'm getting a shower. It's nice to meet your, Peter. You coming by more often?"

Peter opened his mouth but didn't know what to say.

"He's Clint's friend, so I bet he will." Bruce answered instead. He sent a wink at the kid before he vacated his chair. "I've got some papers to finish grading. Let me know when Clint wakes up. I want to get that knee checked out."

"What is it with these parcels of humans that require such monitoring? Are they really so troublesome for youths?" Thor asked, following after Bruce. Before rushing off completely, he returned for a brief moment to lift his hammer off the coffee table and laid it at Clint's side. He set a hand on Clint's shoulder for a moment in a hidden, tender exchange, and then left again.

Natasha leaned down and planted a kiss on Clint's forehead. She left the back of the couch and circled Steve's arm chair. "All right, Spider-Boy, come on."

Peter stood up. "Uh, where are we going?"

"I'm giving you the tour. Did Clint tell you about the tour?"

"Yeah, he mentioned it."

"Did he tell you the last time we gave a new person a tour, the Tower was invaded and that person was murdered?"

Peter shook his head.

"Consider yourself informed. We start on the ground floor lobby."

"Does this mean I get to hang out with you guys now?" Peter asked, as hopeful as a young child standing at a candy store window.

"Actually," Tony interrupted, "It means you get to look, but don't touch. Happy gives you a secure ID, and you can figure out how the elevator works. Cap gets to make all the fan club decisions. I bet he'll wait until you can grow a mustache before you get that level of clearance."

"Thank you, Mr. Stark. I'll work on that." Peter said.

"Come on, kid." Natasha interrupted, dragging him toward the elevator.

With the room dwindling down in bodies, Tony found himself alone with Pepper and the sleeping Clint. Pepper lifted off of his lap and added another kiss to Clint's collection. She ran her fingers through Tony's hair and went out after the others. She had work to do, after all. Stark Tower's daily operations stopped for no one, not even the prodigal son's return. A few minutes later, Tony leaned forward and tapped Clint's shoulder. Barton rolled over and grinned.

"Everybody left. Where do you wanna go?"

"You kept saying Cabo, now I really want to go to Cabo." Clint replied, disentangling himself. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, letting the ice packs slide to the floor.

"I'll call the jet." Tony said, extracting his cell phone.

"Are my passports back in my room?" Clint asked.

"No, I put them in your overnight bag. It's already on the Heli-pad."

Clint slipped the crutches under his arm and with Tony scouting ahead of him, they took off for Stark's private elevator. From there, it was the roof. From the roof, they'd wait for the helicopter, and after the helicopter came the private jet out of LaGuardia. Steve once compared Clint and Tony's friendship to two little old men sitting in Central Park tripping people on bicycles. No one would be surprised when they returned to the living room and found both of them missing.

Like hostages escaping a crisis, Tony rushed Clint along to the roof. He'd already had their bags packed hours before. He knew full well Clint needed a vacation, a real vacation, after everything they'd been through. So despite Clint's ribs, and barely useful legs, they made off like a couple of bandits. However, they realized the tides had turned against them when arriving at the helicopter pad.

Bruce stood by the opening of the elevator doors. He wore a pair of blue and white board shorts and a smart non-Hulk-proof top. Pepper leaned on his shoulder in her floral Bermuda dress and sun hat. A glob of white sunscreen perched on her nose.

The Helicopter had arrived, and apparently had been waiting for a considerable time already. Steve was packing everyone's bags into the cabin and wasn't immune himself to the overall beach-themed Avengers outing, though he skipped the Hawaiian floral for American-flag swim trunks. Thor helped him pack, having shed his Asgardian armor for the visage of a California surfer. The look matched him in all the right ways. Natasha sat in the pilot's seat in her Ray Bands and Vogue sun dress. There was no way she was letting anyone else fly them out.

Peter Parker apparently didn't get the beach party memo and remained in his old clothes beside Steve.

"Planning on cutting out? You know, all of us could enjoy a vacation eventually!" Bruce asked, tsking one finger.

Tony expanded his arms. "Are we doing this? Everyone's coming?"

"Yup."

Without further ado, they headed for the chopper. Tony passed on the flight plan to Natasha who ignored him as if she already read their minds. The super humans assisted Clint into a seat between Bruce and Tony before strapping in.

"You're seriously leaving, like right now? I thought you got blown up yesterday!" Peter called in as the helicopter rotors warmed up.

"I did get blown up yesterday. And I am going. Welcome to the big leagues, Pete." Clint shouted back.

Steve extracted a key card from his pocket and chucked it out of the sliding door. "Take care of the city while we're gone! Don't play with Tony's toys."

Peter looked down at the keycard. A semblance of his Spider-Man face adorned the upper right hand corner, but it was the words beneath that caught him up short. "Avenger-In-Training?" He read, and looked up at the Captain.

"Don't let it go to your head, son." Steve told him, rolling the sliding door closed. With a nod to Natasha, the Helicopter lifted of the pad. New York could take care of itself for a little while. The Avengers had endured a long couple years, filled with heartache and excitement, adventure and loss. But more than anything, they learned to grow as a team.

Clint looked back at his past and how much joining up with the heroes had altered it. It seemed like his life with them started so long ago. At first it was simple, he worked with Coulson to bring Thor under control in New Mexico then got reassigned to the Tesseract base after some tech went missing. That was the first time he became acquainted with the HYDRA faction Blackstone. Then Loki came, changing his view of the universe forever. In the first year as an Avenger, Clint made friends, visited Asgard, inherited four more titles to the end of his name, and got a new bow. In the year following he stopped a Frost Giant invasion, liberated an entire realm, and even found time to rescue a dead Phil Coulson. He'd suffered his own fair share of losses both physically (he didn't know how many times he'd been shot or stabbed, then again his hearing was also a major loss) and mentally. Frigga, Agent Morrissey, Arrow, his own brother . . . So many friends and fellow agents that were never coming back.

But when Clint looked around in the cabin of the Helicopter, he remembered all the things he'd gained. These friends wouldn't abandon him. Even in his darkest moment, they stuck close to him and just when he wanted to escape for at least a weekend of uninterrupted enjoyment, none of them said no. Not even Bruce who normally prevented him from doing stupid things against his health. Instead, they suited up and climbed into the same chopper with him. This was his family, a brotherhood unlike any other. And he was more than happy to be a part of it. Being a hero could wait a few more days. Right now, the Avengers needed a vacation together. A family again at last.

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Please review! Don't forget!

_Next time: Epilogue!_

_Ok, so just fair warning, the epilogue is LONG (but i think you will all really like it!)_


	28. Epilogue

I forgot to put this up before, but if you want to be part of the Hawkeye Initiative conversation, see my inspiration (check out Clint's apartment in Harlem, photos of elves, and other fun things, even me singing Haladarrel's Elven Songs) you can find me on facebook under Ezra Cross.

A/N: _So i considered cutting this down, i know it is quite long, but I don't think there is a single piece i'd like to take out. Please enjoy this highly emotional conclusion!_

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Epilogue

Waverly, Iowa had a population of fewer than nine thousand souls. Most seemed the young couple type, farmer brand, or normal folk, but all had the traditional look of being out in the middle of nowhere. The city proper was full of squat buildings with built out fronts, similar to the days of Wild Earp or Jesse James. A few modern structures existed, but they were mostly committed to either academia or farming. The nearest Starbucks existed twenty-one miles outside of town in the neighboring Cedar Falls. Apparently, all the snazzy people migrated there.

From what Tony could see beyond Clint's head and out the van window, Waverly was a sleepy little town, with little interest in the world beyond its own crossroads. The homes were country quaint, and mostly polished with yards that seemed to stretch forever into the horizon on the flat lands of grass or wheat. Occasionally, the early crops of corn whizzed by the windows, their leaves bent down against the tempest winds that beat mercilessly against the landscape. For the third time in as many minutes, Tony wondered about tornadoes.

Cabo San Lucas had been a wonderful escape for everyone. Not only did Clint get a chance at some pool-side physical therapy, but they even flew down a surgical team from L.A. to arthroscopically reattach the ligament he tore in his knee. They told him to keep off of it for the next eight weeks. The recommendation lasted three, almost a record in Barton's book. His ribs were nearly healed by now, and his fractured ankle bothered him less. He still suffered too much stiffness in his shoulder to draw his bow properly, but over time he would work on that too. Tony knew, the day he shot a quesadilla out of Thor's hand with a perfectly aimed chopstick, it was time to think about heading home. The detour to Iowa, though, he did not expect.

Clint took in the structures sailing past the rental van windows. Memories always tried to catch up with him despite the many times he beat them back into submission. This trip had been his idea. Tony expected, after booking the plane tickets, Clint would change his mind. But he never did, and that surprised him.

They were at the bar of the cantina across the street from their resort one afternoon, about four days prior, when Clint proposed his plan. Everyone was sat at the table together, they'd been doing that a lot lately. The archer opened his mouth and came right out with his request, holding nothing back.

_"I want to go home." He said._

_Everyone was equal parts surprised and not. The world couldn't keep itself out of trouble forever while its heroes recovered._

_"OK." Tony said. "I'll book the tickets now."_

_"Not New York. I want to go to Iowa." Clint quickly said, stopping Tony as the man extracted his cell phone._

_Everyone looked at him. The sounds of the restaurant mariachis, the dancing cantina workers, and the clinking of tequila glasses died away from them._

_"I called the funeral home. Barney was cremated. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do about that at first, but I guess I know now. I want to bring him back home, in Waverly, where our parents are."_

_Natasha reached a hand beneath the table and clasped his fingers. Bruce nodded his head in agreement. It all sounded very logical._

_"If that's what you want, we'll go with you." Steve offered._

_"You don't have to." Clint said. "I mean, I don't mind if you do come, but I'm not going to force you either."_

_Tony shrugged. "Forget it. We're all going. Makes more sense on the tickets. Thor, am I buying you a seat, or will we just meet you there?"_

_"What is this Waving-land Barton's hail from?" Thor asked._

_"OK, Thor's flying with us. It's a six hour flight. Clint, are you buying?"_

_Barton reached into his pocket and extracted his Black Am-Ex. He slid it across the table to Tony. "How much money do I have left after all this?"_

_"Around seven billion, three hundred thousand, forty-five dollars and thirty-three cents."_

_Clint groaned. "Seriously? I have just spent an outrageous amount of time and money on an all-expense paid trip to Mexico for the seven of us, and I made more money than I had before? How does that even work?"_

_"Economics." Bruce said, sipping his rum punch._

_"Do I have enough to buy a building?"_

_Pepper smiled. "You have enough to buy Stark Tower and 5th Avenue."_

_"Good, 'cause I know what I want to buy."_

He said little about his potential investment after that evening. Tony prodded him briefly about the prospects, but Clint kept his cards tight to his chest. It took a big step to not simply return to New York then take off to Iowa on his own without the team. Everyone knew what going home meant to Clint, and none wished to spoil it.

They flew into Cedar Rapids, and instead of waiting for Happy to arrive with the private jet, they rented the highest class vehicle Clint's money could buy. And, apparently in Iowa, that acquainted to a twelve passenger van. They stopped at the first Walmart for Tony to purchase an entire cart full of seat covers. It wasn't all bad. The extra space gave Thor a chance to stretch his legs after the incredibly cramped flight he shared with an overweight man on one side and a hero bunny on the other. Having to check Mjolnir in a locked suitcase came with its own set of challenges as well. He needed a chance to relax.

As they drove north out of the center city, Clint quietly directed Steve's driving. He'd become solemn since the plane touched ground in his home state. Seeing the college football banners hanging around town, streaming the name "Hawkeye" hit him in an odd way. Tony had asked which came first, his nickname or the town's football team, but his friend neglected to answer.

"Hey, is that—Steve slow down! Clint, is that where you worked?" Pepper leaned forward from the second bench seat back and pointed through the small, square windows. A skeleton yard of old carnival equipment lay strewn about what was once a prominent fairground. The carousel horses lay askew on their posts as rain and neglect rusted them from the ear tips down. A few bumper cars lay overturned on the electric track. New graffiti took the place of the original blue and red paint with numbers faded long before.

Steve dutifully eased his foot off the gas as Natasha leaned over him to see out his driver's window. A steel girder marquee stood, despite the years of decay, and boldly declared to all who entered here "Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders". At one time, Steve could see how any child would want to leave his life and join the cast of clowns, sword swallowers, and marksmen. He grew up in an era where Ringling Brothers marching to town was the most exciting moment of his young life. Seeing age and time swallow this place up moved him. He flicked his eyes in the rear-view mirror to see how Clint handled it himself.

"Yeah, that's the place. Ten years on those back lots. That's what it took to make me. I was nine, I think. Phil found me after I turned twenty." He said.

They sat and idled on the side of the road, taking in the sight that once was.

"Do you want to see it?" Pepper asked.

Clint considered the offer, but shook his head. "It's all dead now. It won't mean the same."

"You're sure?"

He nodded, and then tapped the back of Steve's seat to get them moving again. The Captain checked around for traffic, which was almost laughable in its own right. They hadn't passed a single car since leaving Cedar Rapids.

"Besides, I want to get there before the doors shut." Clint said.

"Get where? Is this something to do with that check you had me pick up for you?" Tony asked.

"Yeah it – There Steve, on the left, see the sign? That's it. Is it 2nd Ave? Ok, I see the hospital sign. Just follow that. We'll pass the hospital on the left. Keep going down, I'll tell you where to stop. It's on this road." Clint leaned back, readjusting his seatbelt over his chest. Without thinking about it, he started to bounce his knee and pick beneath the tips of his finger nails. Nervous habits the others hadn't seen in a long while.

Steve did his best to follow the directions handed to him and looked around for the upcoming hospital. Natasha tapped his shoulder as they drove by, and he looked back at Clint through the mirror again. "Keep going?"

"Yeah, about a mile. It's on the right. Start slowing down."

Tony touched his arm secretly, which stopped Clint's bouncing knee. Using a few gestures in sign language, he asked if Clint felt all right. Clint signed back not to worry.

"The driveway is on the right. Past the mail box. It's long." Clint pulled off his seat belt as he leaned up between Steve and Natasha. He double checked the name printed with reflective stick-on letters at the mail box which read, _"Waverly Children's Home"_. He knew then he had the right place.

It was funny what a memory could do. Without having been anywhere near the orphanage since long before he became Hawkeye, he still found his way back without the outside aid of a map or Tony's tracking hardware. He wasn't sure who once said that all you needed to do to find your way home was follow your feet. That statement certainly held true.

Steve parked alongside the old white church and slid the keys out of the ignition. Without moving to get out, they all sat there in silence, and considered the place Clint took them to. Allowing them to come along and bury his brother was one thing, Clint guiding them right to the place he spent his young orphan life, was an entirely different step they didn't realize he had in him.

The orphanage took over the remains of an old Lutheran church erected in the 1950s by Bartholomew Gull. To this day, the single red brick bearing his name and the name of his wife rested beside the front steps. Though they had been replaced five times or so since the original construction, the steps never seemed to find their way over far enough to cover the historic brick. Clint used to trace his fingers into the letters, wondering who this Bartholomew was, and whether or not a building would bear his own name one day. Maybe now it would.

The front of the old church and replaced steps went higher and higher into an A-frame peak. Extending above that was a massive, wooden, formerly white cross, which attempted in all its dignity to touch the very heavens above. During the summer super moons, it would seem to do just that. The church bell hadn't been rung since before Clint and his brother were admitted to the place, and he doubted very much that had changed. A fire in the sixties had destroyed most of the upper rafters and the integrity of the bell itself. The Bronze Age mammoth fell the full sixty feet to the church pews below. The bell had been replaced since then, but, like the liberty bell, went un-rung for fear of the damage it may cause.

When Clint lived in the old orphanage, the church had been used as a one-room school house. Most of the kids he grew up with came from homes as troubled as his own. They couldn't be trusted to attempt a normal school setting, so Mrs. Peel set to their education singlehandedly with a ruler made of pure steel (and an extra inch longer than it should have been). Clint's butt had been at the receiving end of that instrument of student torture more times than he cared to recall.

"Is this what I think it is?" Natasha asked.

"I wasn't sure if they would still be around. In business or whatever." Clint said. He allowed Tony to grab the van's side door and slide it open. One by one, the Avengers piled out and had a firsthand look at the place. Little had changed since Clint's boyhood. The broken down yellow house, also built by the Gull's stood just to the left of the old church. It had a few shingles replaced in the roof recently but that made little difference to the creeping vines clinging to the face like a green beard.

"I do not understand this place." Thor admitted, looking around.

"It's an orphanage." Pepper whispered to him.

"Also a word of which I am not acquainted."

"Clint's parents died when he was young, so the State sent him and his brother to live here. The people that run it take care of children without homes or families to return to. They helped raise him."

Clint broke away from the group to inspect the Bartholomew brick. He traced the indents like habit forced him to do, and missed the heavy look Thor gave to his back.

"But . . . on Asgard, it is the duty of one's bound second to raise the child of his brother or sister. I do not understand why, here, such a place should be even necessary."

"Clint's family didn't have any seconds." She continued to explain gently. "With his brother dead, Clint's all that's left of his family."

This news hit the Asgardian very deeply. He fell silent from introspection, trying desperately to remember ever encountering such loss in his own history. Had there been no one in his life on Asgard who was the last of their line? Like a dying species without a single trace of blood with which to have a lineage? That was a problem in Alfheimr, not Asgard. Despite his attempts, Thor could remember no one in his history that did not have a blood tie, and that alone only furthered the heaviness of him.

"It is now no longer a wonder to me why our friend holds his privacy dear." Thor whispered to her. "To be the last . . . the very last . . . I would imagine comes with a great deal of duty. I admire him more for this courage of returning to his first home as he buries his very name away."

Clint moved to the side of the building and mounted the five steps leading into the sanctuary. Even now, he could hear the crack of Mrs. Peel's ruler against his knuckles, and a phantom pain returned unbidden.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?" a woman's voice caught him short before he had a chance to enter the open church door. He turned in place on the small porch and met the older, weathered face of Mrs. Peel herself. He almost couldn't believe it, but something once told him that woman would haunt the Earth until she crossed the line of one hundred and ten.

"Hi there." He said, smiling. "I don't know really if you remember me at all – "

Her long grey eyebrow on the right crossed the ridge of her nose to meet its counterpart on the left. "Remember you!? Well, I should slam you over my knee for thinking I could forget the second kid I've ever had to literally run off and join the circus. Get off my porch, Clint, and give this old lady a hug before a heart attack takes me off this Earth!"

Clint chuckled and climbed down the steps to greet her. With two spindly arms, she wrapped him up in a hug that could rival a mother bear. He let her get all the good feelings out before she decided to lay into him about old times. It did not take her long.

Pushing Clint back with her palms, she wagged a finger into his face. "You little snot-head. I decide to climb into bed a little early one night, and off you run after your dang fool brother. Not even a goodbye or nothing to your old woman. I saw you on all the news channels last month. You feeling all right?"

"Getting there. Not 100% yet, but working on it." He smiled, working a hand over his knee.

"Gonna get arthritis bad as me if you live so long. Keep getting yourself blown up on the news, and you're liable to meet the maggots before I do."

Moving away from him she grabbed the next person in line, Pepper, into a similar hug. "You that CEO lady that runs this guy's show?" she hiked a thumb at Tony Stark.

"Yup, that's me."

"Pleasure ta meet ya." Her attempt to grab Tony next was met with the insistent resistance of the plain clothed Iron Man. In the end, Mrs. Peel always got what she wanted despite his cajoling of the treatment. When she'd gone through her motions with the rest of the team, she ended with Natasha Romanov.

"So Clint's your man, is he?" She said.

"Something like that." Clint said.

Mrs. Peel's eyebrows met again. "Ain't no '_something_' about it. I might live in the middle of nowhere, boy, but that don't mean I'm not a rightly educated woman. There's nothing about this lady that says she's your girl. It's got to be the other way 'round."

Steve hid a snicker behind his fist. "Oh, you don't know how right you are."

She turned on him now. "'Course I do. Running boys long as I have, I know a thing or two about these pup loves they get once in a blue one." She looked back at Natasha. "I'll give you a piece of advice though. He's an idiot, and he don't like to admit it sometimes. He runs off when the getting's tough, but I suppose that'll work out of him eventually. If you let him think he makes the decisions sometimes but don't really let him, then you'll make it on just fine. Just fine indeed."

Clint rubbed his forehead with his hand. He hadn't seen the woman in over twenty years, and she still had him pegged like he was still her school child. He signed to Tony, who extracted the check from his wallet and gave it to Clint.

"Actually, I didn't drop by to take a look around and head out."

"I already knew that. If you had, you would'a done it fifteen years ago." She replied, turning back to him. She caught sight of the traditional looking paper he held in his hands, and the color began to drain from her face.

"I came into something of an . . . Well, I made some good investments, and you know me enough to be able to figure out what this is." Clint held the check out. "I might've left, but I never forgot this place. I wanted to. I wanted to get rid of it all, but I couldn't. I wanted to pay back a little of what you did for me back then. I had nothing when I came here, but to you, it didn't matter. So I wanted to say thank you."

* * *

:(:):(:):

* * *

"How much did you give her?" Steve asked over his shoulder as they pulled out of Waverly Children's Home.

He shrugged. "I didn't count the zeros."

"That was a wonderful thing you just did, Clint." Pepper told him. Her hand squeezed his as her head rested on his neck. "Those kids were too much. I think you just made their entire year."

"Lives, more like." Tony said. He'd moved to the second row, and sat with his back propped up on the side panel. Three of his fingers nails were painted blue, the other seven were red or orange. The little girls of the orphanage desperately wanted Pepper to play dress up. Tony couldn't help but be dragged into their ploys, and a mani-pedi later, he felt a relaxation deeper than their entire trip to Cabo could have created.

"Could we not have taken even a single heir to return with us?" Thor asked.

"They aren't puppies." Natasha reminded him...again.

"But each one has suffered at the hands of unconscionable forces, torn from their only blood to live a life of solitude and confinement until their eventual release. Could we not liberate even a single one?"

"Again, let me define the difference between human child and a puppy."

"Whoa, slow down!" Clint exclaimed, grabbing the back of Steve's seat. "Sorry, I fell asleep at the switch. That road by the river. It's really a road, I swear. I don't think they'll ever actually pave it."

Tony cast a look through the window at his back. They'd left the middle of Waverly City, and entered the countryside surrounding the general hubbub. Most of the homes had been a farmer style, or solid two story contemporaries with expansive country porches lined in rocking chairs and outdoor cooking. After turning off the last street, however, they entered into the little trailer park alleys that existed in the limits of any city, large or small.

Pepper resisted the urge to lean over and snap down the locking mechanism of the van door. None of the locals seemed all that inviting, even if they were spaced out in a wider area than the typical metropolitan variety trailer park. Under Clint's direction, they headed deep into the outskirts of dirt row. Here, more and more of the tin-sided structures professed the aggressiveness of their dogs, or simply gave up on the world with windows and doors sealed with plywood and nails.

"Number twenty-five. Just pull up out front, no one will care." Clint said.

"What are we doing here?" Pepper asked, looking around warily. She knew it was ridiculous to be concerned, she currently rode with six of the most powerful heroes on the entire planet, but the look of the area gave her a run of cold ice along her spine.

"This is what we came for." Clint explained, climbing over her to get out of the van. He hovered in the door for a moment, looking inside at them all. "You don't have to come if you don't want to. No one's been here in years."

"Where is 'here'?" Steve asked.

"My house."

"Your _house_, house? Where you _grew up_, home?" Natasha asked, surprised. Clint had never even spoken of his childhood house willingly. Arriving there out of the blue shocked her as much as it did everyone else.

"I wasn't planning on coming back here, but I wanted to take Barney home. This was the only home we had. Since we were here, I guess I wanted to get this out of the way. You don't have to come in. No one's been here since Barney and I left." He said.

"I'm getting out." Tony announced, digging his way out of the back seat. Clint stepped away from the door to let him. He doubted anyone planned to stay in the car with this kind of field trip put on the table. Barton headed up to the front step and started looking for the old key.

The house was little to look at. The aluminum siding had once been blue, but weather created a natural wash that eventually changed it to a pale bluish white. The rain gutter along the front edge had fallen from times long ago, and hung like a vertical cane holding the home up. Thick beds of leaves coated the yard from the years before. Not even squatters dared moving in to the place after the former occupants abandoned it.

Three steel trashcans still existed along the squat rusted fence that separated Clint's old yard from the home of his now dead neighbor, Mr. Rivendell. His home, too, had been abandoned to time. The cans overflowed with the abandoned crushed beers. Most of the glass bottles had been either shattered or taken by the homeless looking to make a buck. Clint focused on finding the spare key hidden beside the front door. He had to dig beneath the overgrown weed bed to discover the rock that hid it from view. Unsurprisingly, it had remained there all this time. With key in hand, he headed around to the side of the house to let himself in.

"Hey, Clint, why don't we just go through the front door?" Steve asked, indicating the three decrepit steps leading up to the screen door and metal entry.

"The screen door. He doesn't like to hear it. If he hears it, you'll get beat for . . ."

As he tried to explain it, Clint stopped himself. His father was dead. Where once in his life he may have avoided opening that screen door like the plague itself, it no longer mattered. No man could hurt him. He shook his head at the silly muscle memory and took Steve's advice of walking through the front door.

He mounted the steps first, the metal creaking and groaning under his feet. He pulled the screen open with the squeal of stretched springs. Steve held it for him while Clint fit the key into the lock. The door stuck in its frame, but with a little prodding from Clint's healing shoulder, it came free with a pop of released suction. He stepped inside first, and the entire team followed behind him. The screen door screeched as it sailed closed again. Out of habit, Clint nearly rammed his way through the group to grab it. With his hand on the decomposing metal, he slowly eased it back into place. The others gave him a peculiar look, but said nothing. They could sense the change in him, as if being in this place sent him back to the time when he was little more than a terrified child, growing up in the worst part of town with a drunk of a father and a passive mother. The smell of the room hadn't improved through the years. Still, the air permeated with the retch of alcohol, tobacco, with an undertone of Italian pasta. It was enough to make Pepper gag, though, out of respect for her friend, she resisted. The sight alone was enough to satisfy her own curiosity. Not wanting to intrude more, she placed a hand on his arm.

"I'll wait for you outside." She said.

Tony indicated Pepper's retreat to Thor. "Keep an eye on her, would you?" he asked.

Thor took a final long look at the squalor and agreed. He left, as silent and solemn as the trip to the orphanage had made him. For Clint's sake, he repeated the archer's concern over the screen door, and gently placed it against the door jamb as he left.

"The old man hated it." Clint explained, though no one dared to ask the question. "Hated the sound it made. We usually snuck in through the back door to keep quiet, but somedays you wouldn't and he'd know either way." He moved toward the center of the room where a lone arm chair disintegrated with time. A thick carpet of dust covered every inch of the room along with the dead bodies of outside invaders, like roach or ants. They too had long left the home for better prospects elsewhere. Clint's hand hovered over the back of the chair, but his fingers never made contact.

"You couldn't touch his things. Especially when he'd been drinking."

He retracted his hand to his side and wiped the sweat on the leg of his khaki pants. A shiver ran up his spine as the ghosts of his life reemerged like a fog. His chest seemed to tighten and his breaths became thick. He struggled to remain steady, aloof, and calm in front of the team. Could this place really affect him this much after so long?

He walked of the living room to the hallway directly in front of them. The wood paneling bowed inward and warped out under the stress of keeping upright. The passage was smaller than he remembered as a boy, only a single person could walk along it at a time. Tony stayed right on his heels. The bedroom they entered was half the size of the living room. A bunk bed took up the majority of one side, with a small plywood dresser on the other. The blankets, sheets, and mattresses had been removed at some point, and most of the drawers lay askew. Little remained to display the fact that two boys had once shared the space.

"Was this your room?" Bruce asked. He stood in part of the doorway, allowing Steve to look in the other half. They had decided, when in the living room together, that they should try and keep Clint talking to ride out the wave of memories or regrets he may suffer from their visit. The last thing they needed was to lose him in himself.

"Barney's and mine."

"Did you take everything to the orphanage with you when you left?"

"There was nothing to take. I had a back pack from Sam's brother, Jim. He let me borrow it. Barney and Sheriff Jacobs helped me put some of my clothes in it. I didn't understand why I had to leave. Barney told me to stop crying, but I couldn't. I just wanted Madre."

"I've heard you say that before. Madre. Mother, right?"

"We never called her mom. She was Italian. Very Italian. We learned Italian before we even learned English. She liked being called Madre, and we never thought it was strange until kids at school started picking it out." He pulled the knob on the top drawer to peer inside. There was nothing left but roaches and mothballs. He expected no different. He never had anything to call his own, and that carried through the majority of his adult life.

"Is that your parent's room?" Banner asked, indicating the last room across from the bathroom.

Barton headed there without replying. He paused outside the closed door, as if expecting his father to be lying there in bed with his mother smoking her menthol beside him. When the image fleeted away, he opened the door.

The smell brought a familiar churning to the contents of his stomach. Inch thick ash turned the walls a brown/black. The right of the door was covered in the shattered remains of no less than fifty bottles of Miller Light. Where the bottles hit, no one could mistake the splatter of blood from the little child the glass often connected with. Banner saw the stains as Clint's eyes fixed on them.

"Is that what I think it is?" He asked gently.

"We weren't allowed in here. But she was here. If we wanted to see her, we had to come in, risk it. Sometimes he dragged us in, slammed the door, did things. We never talked about that." His eyes had a faraway look as the childhood terror reemerged. In his logical adult mind. There were things the body could never recover from, even given all the time in the world.

"Barney was braver than I was. He'd sneak in first; make sure the old man was out cold before we could see her. One time, he made me do it alone. I wasn't old enough to keep my feet out from under me, and I tripped on my way inside. He climbed out of bed like a devil. It was the first time I remember getting sent to the hospital. Madre peeled the glass out of my cheek before we went and told them I fell down the front steps. I knew what was good for me, so I didn't open my mouth. A few weeks later, he broke my arm."

Tony and Steve stood along the wall as everyone looked down at the empty, cigarette burned mattress, as if Clint's mother and father might still be there lying asleep in each other's arms. The longer Clint openly spoke of his tragic history, the harder Bruce's heart pumped. He didn't realize how close he came to the edge until he felt the pain of his own nails digging against his palms. If Clint planned on keeping this house around for some sick nostalgia, then Bruce had to get out now before he Hulked out and leveled the place. Steve went along after him, leaving Tony and Clint behind on their own.

"All right, you win." Tony said, shoving his hands into his pockets. He wanted to lean against something and recollect his thoughts, but the state of the place kept him from that.

"I win?"

"We had a contest once a couple years back, remember? Who had the worst dad? I concede."

Clint frowned. "It's not a contest, Tony."

"Are we leaving your brother's ashes here?"

"At first, I thought I would, but seeing it all again...I don't know. It doesn't feel right to leave him here. We did so much to get out of this place."

"It would be like haunting him."

"Right."

"What about the place where your parents are buried?"

Clint considered that idea. On deciding to come back to Iowa, he never intended on taking a whirlwind tour of his entire life history. But that's always what awaited him in this place, whether he cared to admit it to himself or not. At Tony's lead, they headed back into the living room. There was only a single area left, just to their right and through the open door-less entryway. Here, resided the kitchen, a staple of Clint's young life. Not only did it hold the preferred side door, but also, even now, he could see the image of his mother standing at the stove where the tall tin pot still sat. Her wooden spoon, turned grey with age, was sitting inside.

He took it off the stove top and set it in the cupboard. He wasn't sure why. After putting the pot away, he noticed the two mugs he and Barney used those three days they spent alone before the sheriffs came to get them. They went back into the cabinet over the sink. He could reach it, unlike before when he was so young. Dirty dishes on the table. He picked them up, placed them in the sink as if the water might somehow work so he could clean them. He dumped the ashtray in the still full trashcan, refolded the hand towel, adjusted the microwave. In the back of his mind he could feel his mother's presence standing over his with her smiles, the wafts of smoke, and stirring, stirring, stirring the pots of spaghetti.

He could feel his friends' eyes on him as he moved the four chairs upright around the decrepit round table. His father's ghost interrupted the solace of his thoughts of Madre. He wanted to stop himself, but he couldn't. _He had to fix it. Make it right. Do his chores. The old man came thundering out of the next room, a string of curses on his lips. He lifted the liquor bottle over his head with the still swirling red contents drifting across the bottom. _

When Clint came to his senses again, he realized he was standing over the counter, shaking and gripping the formica top with a shattered plate lying on top of the other things he'd gathered up. Steve, Bruce, and Tony were on him instantly, but Natasha came the closest.

Clint held up a hand to stop them from converging. "I need a minute. Can everyone give me a minute? I'm fine, I just need a sec."

"Of course we will." Natasha said. She stroked a hand along the back of his neck and slowly pulled away. The others evacuated to the front lawn to stand with Pepper and Thor. Natasha remained in the living room, curiously wondering around the shadows of Clint's young life.

While she walked, Clint sank. His back slid down the front face of the dusty cabinet door until he sat on the floor with his knees supporting his elbows. The position brought a new throb to his healing ligaments, but he ignored it. The last time he cried about a loss was the death of his wolf. Before that, he couldn't even remember. He didn't care that the others stood just a flimsy plyboard wall away, or whether or not they could hear him breaking down. Once he started, there was nothing he could do to stop himself. The world of emotions he kept locked up hit him all at once. He'd spent his entire life trying to make himself impenetrable, even aligning himself with a league of super humans and geniuses to do it. As a child, no one defended him, and he refused to let that happen to others kids like him. The fear, the pain, the loneliness hit him all at the same time and he wasn't sure how to climb his way back out of it.

Natasha came up beside him and squatted down. Ignoring the filthy floor, she sat next to his hip and took his arm in hers. She didn't say hello, or speak to him until his shaking finally ceased. She slipped a bottle of Jack Daniels between his knees.

"Found it under the mattress." She explained.

He stared at it. The amber liquid still existed halfway down the neck of the bottle. It moved him to think the last time the bottle had been touched was the day his own father threw back a swig and capped it himself. He picked up the bottle and brushed his fingers along the rim. His sobbing eased, and he brushed away the shamefully shed tears with the back of his arm.

"What do you want to do?" She asked him quietly.

He considered his options, holding onto the neck of the liquor bottle. "I want to burn it down."

Without reservation, she said, "All right. I'll get a lighter."

"Not now." He clarified. "Jeez, broad day light, Nat. Let's just drop a bomb on the place when no one's looking and wipe it off the planet."

"Fine, do it the easy way." She replied, disappointed.

Clint stood. He peeled the lid off the liquor bottle and upturned it into the sink. The alcohol poured out into the void as the scent of it added to the general stink of the place. Natasha got up beside him and slipped her arms around his healing shoulder. She kneaded the taught muscles beneath his shirt. He didn't tell her how much it hurt him.

"How's the shoulder feeling?" she asked, kissing his neck.

"Better." He lied. He finished draining the bottle, set the empty glass on the counter-top, leaned back and let her finish her kiss along his jaw.

"What about your brother? He can't stay in the back of the rental van forever." she asked him.

"Cemetery. Where my parents are." Clint said.

"Then let's go, and when we get back to New York, you can help me set the targeting sequence for the Jupiter missile we send to this hell-hole. How does that sound?"

He turned toward her, clasping his hands around her back and drawing her tight against his chest. "You know what? You get me."

"I know I do."

Their lips crushed together for a brief fleeting moment. They shouldn't stay here. Not in the old dying home where all the memories of a rotten life threatened to pull him under. He needed to get out of there, to step into fresh air and get his mission over with. Leaving the rest of the kitchen untouched, they walked out the side entrance to catch up with the others.

The three trashcans lined their way to the front yard. It wasn't until Clint approached the cans that he remembered something from so very long ago. He jogged ahead some, grabbing the rim of the middle most and hoisted it up to see what lay behind it. Sure enough, the two old fishing rods were still there buried in the yellow grass. He let out a whoop of excitement and grabbed them, holding the once prized possessions up for the others to see.

"Planning to take us fishing?" Bruce asked.

"I just can't believe they're here! I left them, I mean, I never thought to take them with me when they carted us off to the Waverly Home. We always stuck them under the cans when we came home so the old man wouldn't find them. It was our safe spot, you know. Probably the only good memory we shared were all those days we took off during the summer. We'd sneak down to the creek and throw in our lines. Never caught anything, the best bait we ever got was mini tadpoles and big league."

Steve strode over and took one of the poles. He'd seen the kind of modifications the Barton brothers had done to them before. Steve and Bucky used to do the same things as kids. He smiled a little. "See, the problem is you needed a better lure. You've got to take a bottle cap and scrape the metal out of it to make it shine really nice, then set it above the hook."

"Hey yeah, Tim Collins on 3rd Street used to do that. I never really thought of it myself though." Clint said, admiring the rusted old hooks. "I'm taking these with us. I've got a plan. Bruce, can you lock that door?"

Banner mounted the steps, and flipped the inside lock on the door handle. At Clint's direction, everyone piled back into the van, with the old fishing poles taking up their own place beside the large cherry box that held Barney's ashes. The seat position rearranged again. Thor slid into the first back row by the window, with Clint sitting to his right on the door side. Pepper and Tony sat behind them, with Bruce stretched in the third seat back. The only change they didn't endure included the ever present Steve Rogers driving and Natasha riding shotgun.

Clint looked over at Thor. "You ok, big guy? You haven't talked much, and it's freaking me out a little." he asked.

Thor knit his fingers. "I believe I understand the depth of your loss, and it pains me exceedingly. I am not sure how I should best display my kinship in support of you continuing as the last heir of your line. I am . . . confused."

Natasha turned completely around in her seat. "That's very sweet and incredibly human of you, Thor."

He looked up. "Truly?"

"Absolutely, and I appreciate it. Thank you." Clint said.

"Not to interrupt the moment or anything, but where are we headed?" Steve asked, angling his head back to be sure he was heard.

"Take the right up there. Go straight for about two miles. I'll know the place when I see it."

"Another childhood home?" Bruce asked.

"A graveyard." Clint replied.

"Did you think of anything to say?"

"Nope."

Steve slowed as the first line of head stones came into view. He squinted ahead, looking for the entrance along the long flat lands. Clint instructed him to keep going farther, so he did. Then the graveyard ended, and he shot a glance into the rearview mirror curiously. Barton didn't waver. He knew where he was going. They crossed a bend in the roadway, and as they exited the arching back of a long turn, a massive oak appeared to meet them.

"We're here." Clint said. "Pull over by that tree."

"Um, this isn't a graveyard." Tony pointed out.

"Yeah, it is." Clint told them. Steve drove ahead of the tree, and pulled along the shoulder until they were off the roadway. The minute they were in park, Clint all but ran out of the inside of the van. The door flew opened, and he jumped out, shaking out his arms as if to send some feeling into them or take away the unbidden tremors. He groaned a little as he paced beside the outside of the van. And as the others disembarked, he headed back up the roadway to the tree.

The oak was colossal. Hundreds of years old, and yet still standing. There wasn't much left from the trunk upward, few limbs, sparse if any leaves, and only the heavy, dark bark. As far as they could see, it was the only tree in two square miles. Wheat and corn fields blew across the soft clay and mud embankments and stopped at a small drainage ditch downhill from the tree trunk. A metal grate covered the front of the underground pipe, the front of which hadn't been cleared off since Clint had been an Iowa resident. Somewhere uphill, a creek flowed toward them, straining against the grate to disappear again.

Clint approached the aged bark. It was covered in intricate, thick knots that ballooned out like handholds to a rock wall. Up it went for twenty feet at least before large, Alfheimr-like limbs reached for the sky. Few sprigs of green dotted only the highest heights of the limbs, but besides these temporary signs of life, the tree remained like a dead animal's bones. Halfway to it, he veered away again. He growled in his throat, as if trying to psyche himself up for a coming fist-fight, but even that didn't keep him from squatting down in the grass to catch his breath. Natasha broke away from the others to go to him, but before she came close, he sprang back to his feet and paced away from her. The move aggravated his knee and he was forced to limp.

Bruce, Steve, and Tony approached the tree together. Even if all three clasped hands and stood around it to sing a hymnal, they wouldn't span the size of its trunk. No doubt the city refused to remove it merely because they didn't have a choice. It would take everything Thor had to get it out of the ground, and even that might not be enough. Above their heads, Thor noted the shafts of two lone arrows slowly being absorbed into the bark. Bruce spied something reflective in the grass being swallowed by the trees roots. He leaned down and picked it up, unsurprised to find a car part. The bend they'd driven out of was a good one, and with the tree waiting on the side of the road, he had no doubt people could have misjudged the speed and gone headlong into it.

And that's when it hit him. _Graveyard._

"This is where it happened." Bruce whispered, turning the part over in his palm. He tapped Tony's arm to show him. "The car accident. Didn't his parents die in a car accident?"

"Yeah, they did. Every time I come out here, I find pieces of the car. It never fails." Clint said, overhearing them. He continued to pace with his hands on his hips, and his shoes creating trenches in the soft earth. A heavy rainstorm must have blown in the night before. Even now, the highway mud clung to his treads like pieces of Iowa that would never let him go.

"He needed beer, again, and he dragged her with him. Barney and I snuck out of the house before he woke up to go fishing. They never came back. My old man was drunk behind the wheel. Three times the limit. He came out of that bend," Clint indicated it with a sweep of his hand, "and plowed right into the tree full on. Weather made the roads slick, but he didn't think of that. He didn't think of her or us, he just did whatever the Hell he wanted!"

Frustration boiled over to a long held back rage. Clint's bow appeared in his hands, and with a mighty swing he cracked into the tree bark with the Asgardian weapon. The shock of the impact against an essentially solid wall drove an ache into his sore shoulder. This wasn't the first time the tree suffered under his hand, and the arrow shafts above their heads laid testament to that.

"Selfish, stupid, old man. He could have gone by himself, but he took her with him! We could have been better off without him!" Clint shouted. He slammed his bow into the wood again, but this time released it to free his hands. Instead of skittering away, it faded into the air once more.

"Easy, brother!" Thor exclaimed. He grabbed Clint around the arms to prevent him from doing any further damage to himself, but when the archer's body went limp, he released. Clint sank to the ground and propped his back against the trunk of the tree. One hand absently worked the soreness in his shoulder. The others came around, remaining out of direct line of sight and crouched beside him. They knew Clint needed little more than a friend's ear.

"I know she wasn't perfect." He admitted. "I know none of it was. But it's all I knew, and for me it was good enough. I guess Mrs. Peel turned out to be my first real mother, but it just wasn't the same. Nothing was ever the same after they died."

Clint's look became introspective as those old thoughts and memories took over him again. He warned his team that this was the first, and the last, time they would ever discuss the issue of his origin, family, or life before becoming the weapon he was.

They agreed.

His parents came out of the bend in the roadway at ninety miles per hour. The heavy storm rain created a virtual water slick on the fresh pavement, and at those speeds, it was no surprise to anyone what happened. They skidded sideways at first, and his father, Harold Barton, overcompensated to send the family car into a front end spin. They hydroplaned across the roadway, jumped the yellow line, then the white, and slammed front end first into the base of the oak. Like a fist, the steering wheel drove up and in to his father's head and chest. His femurs split open like straw, and there was hardly a bone left intact from his waist up. His face potholed inward, like a soft-sided pumpkin bathed in blood and bone.

His mother's name was Edith. She hadn't latched her seatbelt, and as the car slammed to its final resting place, she was ejected through the windshield. Her body rolled down the embankment like a tumbling stone and came to rest in the overflowing waters of the creek. When the sheriffs came to clean up the scene, no one considered that a passenger was in the car, despite the evidence. Her body wasn't found until the next day by someone looking to scavenge what remained of the car parts. Her body had caught against the creek drain. She had been alive at first when she hit the water. The coroner found it in her swollen, heavy lungs. Everyone assured themselves Edith would have died, even if she had been found.

The storm left most of the city of Waverly short staffed, or at least that was their excuse for not running the Barton family plates and discovering the two young children, living parentless in their family trailer. The neighbor had called in the missing person's report three days after the deaths. Finally, a car came to take the Bartons' sons away for good.

Clint removed his wallet from his back pocket and slowly unfolded the layers of used leather. Tucked inside an inner fold, he extracted the only possession he'd ever kept from that life besides the scars on his body and soul. Natasha took the photograph from him and looked into the face of an angel.

Edith stood in the kitchen with the tall silver pot on the stove beside her. A little boy, no more than seven, clung to her apron with one hand, the other extended upward as if begging to be held. But the mother's arms were already full. Pressed against her neck was the younger child, Clint, as he held her wooden spoon and stirred, stirred, stirred the pot she boiled. Her face was radiant, glowing through the sepia of the old and folded photograph. Even from the distance, Natasha could see the great likeness she and Clint bore for one another. He had her eyes.

"I never knew you had this." Natasha said, surprised at herself. Clint being able to hide his internal emotions and experiences was one thing; this tangible evidence of his old life was entirely different. How many times had she been through his things and still she'd never seen it?

"It's not been easy to keep on to it." Clint admitted. He didn't have to remind her how often he'd lost all of his ID, cards, passports, and wallets.

"She was really beautiful, Clint." Bruce told him honestly, passing the photo to Steve and Tony.

"I took the picture with me. It was all I had of her, and I remember not wanting to fold it. I couldn't fit it into my pocket any other way, so I did. Barney took the old man's diploma."

"Princeton." Bruce said.

"He went when he left the Army. They paid his way, or he would've never gone."

"Army?" Steve asked, thoroughly surprised. "I never knew you had a military background."

"Vietnam."

"I read about it. I guess it was hard on a lot of people who came back."

"That's what Madre said. When they died, no one asked us what we wanted to do. We were kids so we never got a choice. They gave them back to us in tin coffee cans. They left us as poor as everyone else around here. We didn't know what to do with them. The graveyard wouldn't take them. It didn't feel right just burying them in our yard, so Barney and I snuck out of the orphanage one day and hitch hiked out here. We buried him under the tree. Barney spread her ashes in the creek."

Tony was sitting to Clint's right, listening in to all the lengthy history from his friend. The photo of Clint's mother ended with him, and for a long time he held it and stared. Knowing what Clint revealed gave him a considerable pause, and Pepper could see that. His own parents, killed in a car accident when he was seventeen, forced him to grow up much faster than he was prepared to do. Tony could understand Clint's undying loyalty to the memory of his mother, despite how she'd let him be beaten by his own father. Clint always had a forgiving soul, the fact that Natasha was with them still laid testament to the root of his character. What struck him most, though, was the innocence of the photo. Here, was a young Clint Barton who knew nothing of the terrors of this world. His brother, not yet the psychopath who kidnapped the President of the United States and murdered men and women, was covered in flour with a dollop of spaghetti noodles on top of his head.

Tony refolded the picture along its used crease lines and handed it back to Clint. "What about Barney? Where do you want to put him?"

"Under the tree. Thor? I didn't bring a shovel or anything so can you do me a big favor and summon a little lightning?"

Delighted to be of any aid, Thor called Mjolnir through the back window of the van and slapped the hammer against his palm. Steve muttered something about having purchased full coverage on the van, and as the Avengers cleared out, Thor swung himself a lightning storm. Clint headed for the back of the van to take out the small box holding his brother's ashes and the two fishing lines. Natasha and Bruce walked away from the tree and down a little ways toward the creek.

Natasha pushed her fists into the pockets of her hoodie and hunched her shoulders together. A subpar home life pulled all of the Avengers together in an invisible bond. Discussing Clint's past brought her back to her own family, left so long ago.

"I just can't even imagine a life like what he went through." Bruce said quietly.

Natasha nodded. "I didn't know she drowned. He never told me that before."

"I have a feeling that a lot of the things he told us just now, he'd never told anyone before. I knew a few things. That his father went to Princeton, and he refused to eat Italian food because of his mother. I didn't know the abuse was that bad. I had to walk out. I would've destroyed the place if I didn't walk out. I'm still tensed up."

She dug her toe into a few old bottles sticking from the edge of the washed out creek. Over time various pieces of road trash ended up rolling down hill and got trapped in the mud. As the water level lowered, some of it revealed, dislodged, and floated toward the grate. Behind them, Thor's lightning cracked across the ground, and the blast of thunder deafened them for a time. The hole he made served perfect for the purpose Clint had in mind, and the tree remained intact.

Clint handed the fishing lines to Steve. Feeling clever with himself, the Captain worked them together, using the line to create a roadside cross. Tony and Pepper remained over the archer's shoulder while Thor crushed his hands through the soil beside Clint's to bury his brother.

Natasha continued to stub her toe into the glass bottles, plastic bags, and solo leather sandals. Curiosity made her dig at the latter the most. She didn't like funerals, and typically did everything she could to avoid them. In her line of business, creating funerals were more along the lines of a personal specialty.

"I think Thor said it best. Clint's all that's left. It's hard to know what to feel for him. Then again, none of us have any family left besides the big guy. Steve certainly doesn't have a line of aunts and uncles waiting around for him." Bruce continued.

Steve finished with his makeshift cross and, with the ground patted down over the buried cherry box, he gave the creation to Clint. The man smiled, but said nothing. He arranged the fishing poles over the fresh packed earth.

Natasha wondered if she should say something light hearted and inspiring. She should go back to the group at least for a last farewell. Bruce tapped her arm while walking over himself. Finally freeing the leather sole with her sneaker, she considered following Bruce. But something stopped her. It wasn't a sandal stuck in the ground, but a brown leather wallet. Its trifold had unfolded at some point. She reached down to pick it up, wondering how long it had been stuck out in the elements, and whether or not the owner missed his cash and cards.

"Do you want to say anything?" Bruce asked as he approached.

Clint stared down at the fishing pole cross and couldn't decide. "I don't even know what I would say. I didn't exactly . . ." He cleared his throat as it threatened to tighten on him again. "I never planned to be doing this, you know? The first time he died, I went to the funeral. His FBI buddies, they handled everything. They buried him in Arlington."

"Clint?"

He looked over at Natasha. There was something resting in her hands as gingerly as if she'd discovered an unhatched egg. Her eyes were wide and expressive.

"I found it. I just found it down the embankment. Maybe it floated up sometime, I don't know. But, look at it. It looks like yours."

Clint held out his hands and she laid the leather trifold wallet into them. The name on the driver's license leaped up at him like a living soul.

"Are you serious right now?" Bruce exclaimed, looking over the information.

"It's the old man's wallet." Clint breathed. His fingers worked carefully through the leather, picking it apart layer by layer. He first extracted the driver's license. A photo clung to the back of it. He handed it to Steve, not trusting his own shaking hands.

Carefully Steve peeled them apart. Unfortunately, the photo had nothing left to salvage. He held up the remnants with disappointment. Clint continued digging. A twenty dollar bill came out next, with a five dollar silver certificate. He handed those to Tony, and extracted a crumpled social security card. Pepper took that and the driver's license from Steve.

"There's another picture." Natasha pointed out, indicating it with a finger. He turned the wallet around in his hand and carefully pulled open the side pouch. The photo threatened to stick and disintegrate, but with gentle prodding it came free.

In all his young life he'd never seen a photo of his father. It was as if the man's ghost could only haunt him from personal memories. Any enemy he had could somehow transform into that face from his nightmares. But holding the photo brought back a deeper feeling. His father looked just like him.

The photo was from Harold Barton's Army days. From beneath the shade of his combat helmet, calculating blue eyes stared into Clint's heart from decades before. He had a similar jaw, nose, and arch to his brows. Even upside down, Steve remarked at it.

"It's like you from a different decade."

"Yeah, it kinda is, isn't it?" Clint replied. He peeled a second photo free from its back and faced the first camera-caught embrace of his own mother and father. Edith and Harold held each other and smiled into the camera. His mother looked ethereal, with the smile on her face and her arms intertwined with her husband. Even then, Harold's eyes contained a darkness that reminded Clint of Loki's possession. He found it hard to look at him. The rest of the wallet was empty. No children, no home life, nothing that would attest to the fact that more than Harold and Edith existed in the world. Clint had to admit he wasn't surprised. He often wondered if the old man ever wanted children. Most likely not from the way he'd treated the two brothers.

"You know, now that you have this," Pepper held up the driver's license, "You can look up your family history on . I wonder what you would find. His Army records I bet, but maybe there's more out there. Who knows, you could be related to President Lincoln?"

Clint refolded the soaked wallet and, leaving the discovered articles with his friends, he approached Barney's new grave on his own. He bent down on one knee, and set the old leather on top of the fresh packed earth. The others moved away to give him his privacy.

He still wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Since leaving Iowa, so much of the brothers' lives had been spent apart. Clint fell into a bad crowd, began working petty thefts before graduating to a bank heist. Barney tried out the Army for a while to get himself straightened out. Clint didn't know if, or when, he even left that for the FBI. While SHIELD recruited Clint, Barney drowned in his debts. Whether Coulson knew it or not, Clint constantly worked to bail him out.

There was no coming back from this death. Not for a second time.

Clint whispered over the ashes of his family. "Do me a favor. No more surprises. Don't crawl out of a foxhole one day and start this thing between us all over again. Let this be it. This is it. No more running. I . . . Barney, I found something good here for the first time. I wish you would have let me in. I wish we had more time for you to meet them." Clint's throat tightened. He refused to shed one more tear at that old graveyard which claimed so many Barton lives.

"I'm not leaving anymore. I couldn't leave it if I tried. And I did try. This is everything we ever talked about. I found a home. A really good one too, and for some reason they're letting this carney boy stick around. I'm not going to screw this up. Like Thor says, I'm the last of us. It's my job to carry this name the old man cursed us with. And I'm going to turn it into something heroic."

Clint stood. "Hey, Steve?"

Surprised to be summoned, the Captain jogged over. Clint called his bow to his hands again and extracted one of his collapsing arrows from his pocket. After extending the shaft, he lightly twisted the telescoping ends into place. This locked them the way Tony's latest design intended.

"I didn't even know you had some of those." Steve remarked.

"I always have an arrow." Clint replied. He set the shaft on the string, and angled himself, pointing toward one end of the tree. Above them were the original two arrow shafts the young Clint Barton had added so many years before. They served as his parent's headstones.

"How can I help?" Steve asked.

"I still can't draw it back." Clint didn't want to admit the truth, but there it was laid out. He placed one hand on the riser of his Asgardian bow, the other on the arrow nock against the string.

Steve moved behind him, but wasn't exactly sure what Barton wanted him to do.

"I'll aim it." Clint said, lifting so the other two arrow shafts were within his sight line. "With my hand on the string it should let you pull it back. I just can't do this on my own, not yet."

The Captain was touched by the very intimate request. Clint never admitted to weakness, and the man he knew would have rather left without performing the ritual, than admit he couldn't even draw his own sacred bowstring without help. To reduce the risk of wounding his pride, Steve said nothing. The others watched as Clint pulled as hard as he could. The string moved, but it came at the expense of his shoulder. Steve took over the slack. Clint's assessment proved right. With both their hands on the string, and Steve's soldier serum working over time, the shot lined up perfectly.

"I can't believe how hard this is. You do this like fifty times a day!" Steve remarked, and meant it. Clint always said the draw strength on his bow was at least two hundred pounds. There weren't many ways to properly confirm his boast, so Steve always assumed he over exaggerated.

"Actually, more like a couple hundred times a day." Clint replied, nonchalantly. "I'm going back to my 50lb trainer for a few weeks to work back up to this again. Now follow my hand. _Don't_ just let go. Let the string slide off your fingers. Wait for it."

Clint readjusted his sight for Steve's added weight. "Ok, let go."

Their fingers slid from the string in tandem, and the bowstring leaped from Steve's hand half a second before the archer's. The arrow sailed true to Clint's impeccable aim, and landed a fraction below the original two.

"I think if you'd asked me to hold that a second more, I wouldn't have been able to do it." Steve admitted, shaking his hand off.

"Yeah, I would have asked Nat or Tony to do it, but, you know…"

"I doubt anyone but Thor or the Hulk could have actually held it." Steve and Clint walked together back to the group, leaving the memories buried behind them.

"What were you saying about me? Because whatever is, it's wrong." Tony said, folding his arms.

"Only that you weren't man enough to pull an Asgardian bow." Steve boldly declared. He climbed back into the driver's seat.

"Oh, oh, hang on a second!" Tony declared jumping into the back seat beside Pepper.

Thor took the passenger seat after a little war with Bruce, and Natasha walked in with Clint to take the last bench together. The rental's engine fired to life, and the team pulled out onto the streets. The sun began falling into the distant fields of wheat and corn. Clint watched through the glass while his old memories slid away and buried. He let himself go back to that time where, as a child, he ran wild in those old fields. The world was never perfect, eventually it burned right out from under him, but it didn't matter. He loved it. The good, the bad, the hate, and the pain. He'd risen above what expectations he'd been saddled with in life.

Then the fields faded away. He looked for a moment into the oceans of Asgard, the woods of Woodrenkell, and the crystal pools of the Flaming Falls. He'd come so much further than the bounds of the little Midgardian town that encompassed his life.

Natasha slipped her hand into his. This was always how their missions ended now, her and him, looking out to face the world to come. He didn't want to tell her how ready he was to walk away forever. She squeezed a little harder, and for the first time he noticed she was pressing something into his palm. Surprised, he opened his hand.

"Happy sent me all the hair he could pull off your clothes, bed, and brushes. It wasn't enough, so when Steve told us about Peter, I made him come over with your stuff so we could find more. Thor got the stone from Asgard. I don't know where. I'm not good at drawing, you know that. Tony etched it, Banner wrote the program into the laser. Steve helped me carve and polish it. Pepper took his leash to a jeweler and had them make up a string for it."

"Tasha . . ." Words temporarily failed.

"I wish it was more, that it . . ." She whispered.

Clint leaned to her, dropped his head into the nape of her neck, and let his body fall into hers. He didn't need to say any more. What she'd given him was enough. He turned the arrow head over in his hands. It had been hand carved, with an etch of a grey wolf set howling against the background of obsidian black stone. Tightly wound strands of white, grey, and black hair were pulled across the neck, and went up into Arrow's old, black leash that formed the necklace.

The entire van had gone silent as they heard the object exchange hands. A few of his teammates turned around to see how the gift went over, but no one asked whether he liked it or not. They knew better. Words weren't necessary between them anymore. His behavior was enough for them to be satisfied. Clint slipped the leash necklace over his head, and let the cool stone settle against his chest. This was more than he could have asked for, and they'd gone through all the trouble to do it for him. This was a true family. The best of teams, and he wasn't going anywhere. His roaming days were behind him. He'd found his home, his tranquility, and his love.

He made a promise to himself and the dead family he left behind in the mounds of Iowa dust.

_Defend the world until it burns. When you can no longer defend it, avenge it-_

_Until death pulls you apart._

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_what do you think? it really is the end of an amazing era, and i want to thank all the readers who have been there since the start. A special thanks to Icanhearthedrums and JRBarton also for enduring my late night inspiration madness. I can't believe how far we've come since "Lithium Hawkeye". _

_I DO have a SPECIAL surprise coming up soon and I hope you enjoy that when it arrives. _

_This isn't the end of my work with Hawkeye by ANY means, though, and expect some new and exciting directions in the future._

_Please review!_


	29. Epilogue Part 2: Sometime in the Future

If you thought i might be done, you were wrong! Introducing: the BONUS chapter! (ps, sorry/not/sorry)

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Epilogue Part 2 – Sometime in the Future—

She leaned on the wall outside of his house, tapping her foot as if somehow it would inspire the old man to go faster. She knew better. Nothing could get that guy moving more than a snail's pace even if she lit a fire under him. Even if Tony freaking Stark came down from his ivory Avengers' mansion and planted himself on his doorstep, Clint Barton wouldn't go any faster. Especially since he knew she was in a hurry, it was like license to be a slug.

"UGH! Would you hurry the Hell up already! By the time we get there, the place is going to be closed!" She shouted into the kitchen window.

Clint appeared at the front door and crossed his arms over his chest. "Ya kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"No, my mother is dead."

"Your father is dead, your mother loves you very much, and I doubt she wants you hanging out with me." Clint grabbed something behind the door and slung his jacket over one shoulder. "Lock up." He said, not bothering to pull the front door shut behind himself.

"Isn't the Widow home?"

"If Nat was, she'd probably be talking me out of this. She's down at Cap's apartment in D.C. They're working an undercover case that I didn't just tell you about. She'll be home next week. So in the meantime, close the door."

She groaned, but climbed his porch to yank it closed. She tried the lock once or twice to be sure it caught, then tumbled down the stairs after him. She was disappointed when he bypassed her brand new, luxury class, VW Beetle for his less-than-enthusiastic looking '89 Chevy truck. Two of the four hubcaps had gone missing on the NJ turnpike three years ago, and he had yet to replace them, even though she bought him some for Christmas the same year. He had three tickets for the missing headlamp he refused to replace, and there was hardly a time he pulled out of the driveway in the clunker without breaking down.

"Can't we take my car?" She asked, sending a desperate look toward her beauty. She even displayed its readiness by remote-starting the engine. Clint took one look, lifted a wrinkling eyebrow, and climbed into the driver's seat of the Chevy. She groaned again, reluctantly following along. Her duffle bag of gear transferred from the trunk of the Beetle to the bed of his pick up and, with her fighting against the sticky passenger seatbelt, Clint pulled out of his driveway. They were on the road in only a few minutes.

"You bother me every Saturday. Then you started showing up on Tuesdays. If you don't have a calendar, let me inform you, today is Friday." Clint said. He tried to sound like the strict mentor, but it failed miserably on the girl.

"Are you going to shoot your bow today?" She asked, giddily.

The Hawk's blue eyes had grown dark with age, changing from crystal to sapphire. He sent a glance over at her. "Maybe, if you behave. And stop tailing me on missions. It's getting to be a real bother. You aren't an Avenger. Not yet, anyway and it's freaking Cap out."

"But I'm getting good. As good as you! I Robin-Hooded four arrows the other day . . . after I tried to prove to you there was no such thing . . . I mean, they did a show on Mythbusters about it, how should I know they got it wrong? Oh, and I helped Spider-Man bring in the Chain Gang last week so that should get me like, two . . . no, three brownie points. Don't-cha think?"

They pulled up to a stop light, and Clint turned in his seat to stare at her. It was hard to imagine the little girl she'd once been. The first time he'd seen her, she was so young and defenseless. Now, time and sheer dedication had transformed her into something her mother would always blame Clint for.

"You gotta stop calling yourself Hawkeye." He said, sternly. "People are going to get confused. And before you ask, Mockingbird isn't available either. You can be Hawkeye when I'm either dead, or I'm blind."

Her smile widened. "So when's your next deadly mission coming up?"

He groaned. The light changed, and the two continued on down the street. Their turn came up, and soon they left the main thoroughfare for Clint's private club. They parked by the street and got out together. He pulled his bag off the seats, and waited for her to get her own duffle before heading to the back door. Without waiting for him, she took his keys and rushed the door to unlock it, then fluttered inside. Clint shook his head and followed.

"Evenin' boss!" a man called from the back office. He stepped out, adjusting his navy blue polo in the waistband of his jeans. "Thought I saw you pack it in for the night?"

"Hey, Bill. I thought I did, but some irritating little college kid came and bothered me at home." He dropped his bag by the back door, and picked his quiver out of it along with his collapsing ex-SHIELD bow.

"Doin' some shootin' again? That girl's momma's gonna whip her good when she finds out."

Clint smirked. "Yeah, well, that's not my area of expertise."

He headed off down the dark alley to the back of the rows of gun ranges and indoor archery targets. Every time he walked through his second job, it was like stepping back into a part of himself he left a long time ago and never thought he would get back. He made this place like a shelter to his memories. Everything good existed at the shooting gallery, from the lines of metals he'd been given along the walls, to the news articles of his exploits, even the fragments of battles long ago fought.

Cross beams from the Chitauri attack on New York, dried flowers from Frigga's funeral on Asgard, Arrow's collar and leash, a spear from the trial of Alfheimr, a piece of Cap's shattered shield, the golden rooks from Blenheim, Rocket's favorite pistol, a sprouting twig from Groot, and so many other memories that people never had to pay to see. Clint Barton had long left his spy days and shadow times in the past. He was out, for good now, and this was the place people could come and see everything he had done.

He'd picked the location for a few reasons. It was halfway between Banner's apartment by Princeton University and Avengers Tower in New York. Clint's home, and his training center, became the hub of travel for everyone. On rare days, like today, he was alone at the house. Typically Bruce, Steve, Tony, T'Challa, Vision, Luke, Logan, and so many other heroes passed in and out of his guest room. It was an open door policy. Bring your suitcase and crash at Clint's place. That's how he liked it.

The training center was popular not only because an Avenger owned it and people from the world over traveled there to meet him, but because Clint wasn't the only hero around. One day he'd be doing self-defense courses with Natasha and the next Tony would stop by for target practice and a beer. Even the Hulk cut loose in the underground danger room with Thor, Vision, or even Tony and Steve. Occasionally Luke Cage and the Wolverine would mix it up which was always fun to see. Anyone who wanted to watch was welcome. Clint knew first hand when he stopped being a spy and started being a hands-on hero how impact it had for the world to meet his human side. This was the one place even the heroes could go and be normal for once and the public was welcome to join and watch.

He walked by the old and new memories, disturbing the shop dog who lifted his head from the pile of crash pads in the corner. As Clint suspected, the girl was out back and already on her second quiver of arrows. She'd shot through two round targets at distances of one and two hundred meters. The two hundred still gave her trouble. It always did.

"You're leaning too far back. Sacrificing your sight line to reach the target. I keep telling you, you need a bigger draw strength. Especially if you are planning to go anywhere near the 1000 meter." He said, slinging his quiver over his back and snapping it into place.

She stuck her tongue out at him. Sure she'd tried to hit his mile-away target before. That was the third reason Clint even bought that property in the first place. It was just flat enough and long enough for him to taper the outdoor range in increments of 100 meters, all the way to 2000. A single arrow stuck dead center in the 2000 meter target, and hadn't been touched in four years. At first, she wholly believed Clint made the shot. But the longer she was around him, the more she figured he'd just gone up and stuck it in by hand to fool with her.

"You just say that. I looked up the world record. It's some Hungarian guy, and he did 800 meters. Besides, you can't even use the super hard bow anymore either. So there."

Clint cocked his head back. "Wow, was that a challenge from the apprentice?"

She held her bow up between them menacingly. "And how 'bout it? This is the hardest draw they make for recurves today, and I modified it myself. It goes 150lbs, and I can shoot it like fifty times in a row. What have you got that isn't some thirty-year-old SHIELD relic?"

Clint considered her proposal. Besides, it was healthy, these days, to cut kids off at their knees. They deserved it. It was his duty to prove that she still had plenty more to learn, even from an old Avenger like him. So he decided to do something he hadn't done in a very long time. Shaken from the depths of whatever realm it banished to, he summoned his Asgardian bow to his fingertips. The gold, black, and silver etchings blazed like a bolt of Thor's lightning. The string, made from Sleiphner's hair, never frayed, even in the years of disuse. It waited for him, always, knowing that one day it may be needed again.

He pulled a single arrow out of his quiver, didn't even bother to look at the tip, or its conformation. He never did. He always assumed that if it made it to his quiver, it was the perfect arrow for absolutely every one of his needs, whether that was indoor, outdoor, needed a clockwise or counterclockwise spin . . . the girl didn't know how he did it, but somehow he always made what he used, work.

The arrow pressed against the ebony string until it locked into place. In one fluid motion, he lifted the bow, leveled the shot for the 2000 meter target, and let the arrow fly. He wasn't lined up in front of the target, but instead shot diagonally from the 500 line. The projectile cut a path between two targets, and headed straight for the 2000 meter mark. Clint didn't look to see whether it hit or not. A shot that far away would need a scope to tell for certain. He banished the bow back to its hidden realm and folded his arms.

"Lesson #198: don't tempt the master. Now, you can spend the next twenty minutes walking down to that target just to tell me how great I Robin-Hooded that 2000 meter dead center from thirty degree angle difference. And on the way back, you can figure out how that is even possible. And then, you get to practice with my crappy thirty-year-old SHIELD relic."

She set her bow on its rest without voicing a reply. With steam erupting from her ears, the girl stalked off down the archery range to prove he was as full of it as he sounded. Bill walked up behind him, the shop mutt trotting along beside him. The dog waltzed over to Clint and plopped down on the archer's left foot.

"Hell of a shot." Bill said. He eyed Clint. "Need some ice for that?"

Clint shook his head a little and rubbed his shoulder. "Nope."

"Awful hard on her. You tell her yet?"

Clint didn't reply.

Bill sighed and folded his arms. "Stark called. Said he picked up your bow on the scanners. Said you haven't used that thing in he didn't even know how long. Scared him when he saw it show up. Wanted to know if you were in trouble. I came runnin' out here like the dang Kree were fallen from the skies again."

"No, I'm all right. Just trying to prove a point." Clint reached down and scratched Lucky's head. The one-eyed mix bathed his pant leg with his tongue.

"Thought you couldn't use that bow anymore?"

"I shouldn't. Doesn't mean I can't." Clint replied. He turned, shoving Lucky off his foot as he and Bill headed back inside. It would be a while before the girl returned with his arrow.

"Think you missed?" Bill asked quietly.

"Nope." Clint said. "Not that time."

"They say how long you've got? Before the eyesight's all gone?"

Again, Clint shook his head. "Tony's not sure. Maybe a few months. Few weeks. Someone's gotta take over. Keep the name alive. Kate . . . She's got something. Something that I have. I just gotta get her the rest of the way before..." Clint stopped by the back door and looked back at the field. He'd worked so hard to build this sanctuary. He knew every inch of it by heart, with or without his eyesight, he knew he could still get around it.

"Little Katie Bishop come a long way from where you found her. Deserves her shot at this."

"Yeah." Clint said, watching the hot-headed, stubborn, arrow-obsessed girl march her way down the 2000 meter line in a head-forward, shoulder taught, Army trudge just so she could prove a point. He'd done that once with Trick Shot. Funny how things came full circle.

"She'd make a great Hawkeye one day. And Hawkeye deserves a legacy."

Bill smiled but said nothing about Clint's assessment. He was fond of the girl too. She'd spent her entire childhood under the careful guidance of the best tutors money could buy, but all she ever wanted was to be Merida from Brave and to run off into the sunset as Hawkeye's protégé. After the training center went up, she became costumer number one. Her mother, Martha, forbid it, but what could the woman do? Her daughter had been bitten by the hero bug. In the end, Martha knew her daughter was safe in Clint's hands. She had a soft spot for the hero. A lot of women did.

"I don't know how you do it." Bill said, shaking his head. "Always got some woman wrapped 'round your finger."

"It's the cupid in me. Women can't resist it."

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_I think i have, at last, crushed your souls forever._

_remember! to keep abreast on updates for this and future projects, just find me on facebook under Ezra Cross. _

_Please review!_


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